


Our Princess Is On Another Sphere

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Choking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Kink, Dogboys and Doggirls, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, First Time, Frottage, Genital Torture, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, LGBTQ Character of Color, Light BDSM, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Mating, Multi, Or as close as I'm likely to get to it, Oral Sex, POV Character of Color, Polyamory, Religious Content, Rimming, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Burn, Spanking, Telepathy, Threesome m/m/m, Violence, let's be real here, polyamory negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 13:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10361643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Porthos can finally admit that he's needed — this.Or something like it.Something like the absolute *rightness* of taking a young man who *needs* teaching, *wants* teaching, *craves* teaching —Taking that young man aside and giving it to him.Being *able* to give it to him, because he's finally old enough, experienced enough, *good* enough —Well.It's good.It's *right*.





	1. When Jason says he has a gift for you, you should probably duck.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts), [Houndstar (green_animation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_animation/gifts), [Outcastspice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outcastspice/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: If you find a spoiler in here, you win a prize. Takes place at a *highly* AU-ized point in the future, when Athos and Porthos are somewhat older.
> 
> Author's Note: Pixie has wanted to see a more fully-adult Porthos from me for a long time. A darker version of this bunny popped into my head for it some months back and took over a large portion of my mind — I've really listened to "Love Song For A Vampire" way too many times — but I wound up not being able to write anything for a while. By the time I *could* write something, my brain had thoroughly marshmallow-ed the bunny up. *nods in satisfaction*
> 
> Acknowledgments: To Pixie, Melly, Spice, Houndstar, Liz, and, of course, my Jack, for audiencing, encouragement, helpful suggestions, tugging me back from the brink, and generally helping me through this long, sad time when Treville isn't getting his dick wet.

Porthos thought he'd hate being a lieutenant — honestly thought he'd *loathe* it. 

There was the fact that lieutenants spent less time in the field and more time being politicians — that would be *enough* — but also there'd been the way his parents had watched him when the word came down from Uncle Kitos — *Captain* Kitos — that he and Athos would be promoted. 

On the one hand, it *was* about time — even with all the trouble he and Athos had gotten into over the years, and all the trouble they'd gotten into without Daddy to pull their bollocks out of the fire once politics had made it necessary for him to leave the captaincy and spend more time at court. 

On the other hand...

Well, there was everything he knew about what being a lieutenant would mean for his ability to fuck *about* with Athos, and there was the way his parents — *their* parents, because Uncle Laurent and Aunt Marie-Angelique had opinions about this, too — had *watched*. 

And *worried*. 

And, in Daddy's case, had offered — 

Well, could you really call it advice? 

("It won't be the end of the world, son." 

"Uh."

"It...")

And Daddy had licked his lips —

Started to *sweat* — 

*Winced* — 

("For fuck's sake, Daddy —" 

"You — could. Enjoy... I.") 

And then they'd just stared at each other, Porthos with a look of horror on his face, Daddy with a look of *dismay* that was just getting more and more horrifying *to* look at — 

("Daddy —" 

"I'm... going to shut it now."

"Right, you — right.") 

Mum had promised to keep a tighter lead on him after that.

So had his younger siblings. 

Sometimes, these things take a group effort. Porthos had appreciated every bit of it. 

As for how Athos had dealt with the whole thing — 

("It's rather unseemly." 

"What is, exactly, mate?" 

"The way our families seem to expect us to... fall to pieces at the first hint of responsibility,") Athos had said, and proceeded to hit the bullseye with the arquebusier. 

("Nice one,") Porthos had said. He was still reloading his own. ("I think it's not that, though." 

"No?" 

"Nah. I think it's that your dad and mine sodding loathed giving up the freedom *we* have now —" 

"Obviously — oh. They expect us to be the same." 

"That. And they're not *completely* out of their trees, but...") 

"*But*, yes.") 

Porthos had hit the bullseye, too — 

("Excellent." 

"Thank you *very* much, mate. I — how *do* you think you'll do with this?" 

"We'll have less freedom to train together." 

"Much less." 

"I dislike that a great deal." 

"Yeah, and —" 

"We'll have to... curtail our carousing.")

Porthos had grunted. 

("No...?"

"Daddy and our Uncles *really* didn't, brother." 

"Hm. Not at all?" 

"Or." 

"Yes?")

And Porthos had nodded thoughtfully while reloading. 

("They got into less could-get-them-hanged trouble, yeah."

"Mm.")

Porthos had winced. ("Right, yeah, we're going to have to curtail our carousing, some."

"Yes. I don't... I will miss it. There is much we haven't yet *done*." 

"Right, and there's a lot of *good* we did —"

"When we were ostensibly 'acting the fool', yes.") And Athos had narrowed his eyes. ("This could be... stifling."

"That it could." 

"We'll have to —" 

"Find other ways." 

"As ever, brother,") Athos had said, and smiled at him, thin and predatory and hot as fire. 

And that's exactly what they'd done, really. 

Being a lieutenant *does* mean that he sometimes spends more time training the cadets than he does working on his own skills. 

It *does* mean that he has to think a lot more about the image he puts across — the image of the King's Musketeers and that of the de Tréville *name*. 

But it also means that he can take a good, long look at the younger men who have their commissions — 

The still-unpolished and often *wild* young — 

Well, frankly, the people he used to sodding *be*. 

And he can push them in certain directions. He can encourage them to do their carousing in neighbourhoods that desperately need a stronger presence from men who can *protect* the weak. 

He can encourage them to make up the shortfalls in their pay by protecting *this* brothel, or *that* inn. 

He can encourage them to take care of their bastards and *all* of their women — and men, too — Uncle Laurent and Daddy had built a very particular *kind* of regiment, and it *really* hasn't changed.

He can teach them all *sorts* of lessons about how to keep the King's Musketeers preeminent in France — in *Europe* — while still keeping them... right. 

*Correct*, as Athos would say, and he's doing the exact same things Porthos is doing, and damned if it isn't all *incredibly* *satisfying*. 

He can, finally, admit to himself that it had been a *disappointment* that, of his three siblings, the only one who really had any interest in weapons was the youngest, little Odile. 

She's currently the deadliest noblewoman in France, give or take Aunt Marie-Angelique in a mood, but the fact is, she'll never be able to follow in his footsteps. 

He can finally admit that he's needed — this. 

Or something like it. 

Something like the absolute *rightness* of taking a young man who *needs* teaching, *wants* teaching, *craves* teaching — 

Taking that young man aside and giving it to him. 

Being *able* to give it to him, because he's finally old enough, experienced enough, *good* enough — 

Well. 

It's good. 

It's *right*. 

He absolutely wouldn't give this *up*, and he frankly can't understand what their families were *worried* about, considering how much they'd loved training *them*. 

Something to ask the next time he gets Daddy alone. 

Something — 

And that would probably work better if he actually managed to leave the garrison before the sun was *completely* down *sometimes*. 

Porthos laughs at himself — 

His small clutch of exhausted cadets smile up at him hopefully — and sweatily. 

Right, then. "Come on — let's get cleaned up. We're breaking off early today." 

The boys cheer tiredly. 

He passes Athos sparring with two of the older cadets at once — teaching them how to work as a unit — and signals that he's heading home. 

Athos nods and gets right back into the fray. 

He rides Yves back to their rooms in the city, missing the feel of Léon beneath him just a little, missing their old rooms closer to the garrison...

Léon was injured in an action five years ago, and is living out his years on their lands outside of Paris, and Daddy's advancement had made it necessary for them to get a bit more upmarket. 

And a lot more inconvenienced. 

Uncle Laurent had ignored things like that for *years* — living practically on *top* of the garrison with Aunt Marie-Angelique when they weren't on *their* lands outside the city — but Henri had been a different sort of King than Louis. 

Very different. 

Of course, there are other ways Porthos *could* travel — 

Other things he could do with his *power* to get from here to there —

But he'd just communed with the All-Mother a few days ago, and it's always good to keep Yves used to city streets as much as he's used to other things. Unlike Léon, he's not as smooth at moving between city and countryside — especially after a lot of missions *in* the countryside. 

He can all but *taste* Yves's resentment for being packed cheek-by-jowl with this many humans. 

He can certainly *smell* it. 

Porthos rumbles and pets and cossets Yves a bit — 

Considers asking the All-Mother for advice about him — 

Feels the All-Mother's still-faint — he really *has* been a dutiful son — tug on his soul as *She* feels him thinking about Her — 

He gently pulls free while promising to visit soon. 

He *will* ask. Though he suspects Her advice will boil down to 'spend less time around humans'. 

Yves whickers. 

Porthos snorts. "You know, mate — Athos's Actaeon never puts *him* through this." 

Yves tosses his head a little. 

Right, and that's for that. Porthos shuts his gob and keeps petting. 

Once he's home, and he's disarmed himself as much as he can stand to do while he's still technically in Paris — he knows for a *fact* that Mum still carries a blade and a cosh *somewhere* in her skirts all the bloody *time* — he goes to check on Lucien, who *should* be finished eviscerating his tutors for the day, and will absolutely be able to give him a read on what's been going on in this house while Porthos has been burying himself at the garrison, and, unlike Jeannette, won't extort anything from him for it. 

Odile's a lost cause — guaranteed Mum's had her on punishment for terrifying a suitor or two, which just means they've been thick as thieves, conspiring on how to keep Odile good and single for as long as possible. 

Jeannette's betrothed to Thomas, but the de la Fères have utterly failed to have any more sons, and — 

That's when he feels it.

*It*. The sudden cold and *thickness* and *darkness* to the air — there. 

Jason's back from wherever the probably-literal hell he'd gotten to and asking for him *subtly*. 

From Daddy's study. 

All right, then. Porthos makes a detour, walks in —

And finds Jason with *both* his parents. 

Porthos grins and tips the hat he isn't wearing — 

Daddy grins — 

Mum growls — 

And Jason — hangs back. Hunh. 

"Right, what's the story?" 

Jason touches his tongue to his upper lip in that *teasing* way he has — 

Mum growls *harder*, ears flattening — 

And Daddy clears his throat — "Jason has —" 

Mum swats him. 

"*Ow* —" 

"How *are* you, sweet boy?"

Convincing Mum that he's actually out of short pants... well, that will happen sometime after never. "I'm good, Mum. Things are going well at the garrison —" 

"You are *enjoying* your new duties," she says, but... not as if she's speaking to *him*. 

Porthos frowns a little. "I am, yeah —" 

"You do not *need* something which will give you more *excitement*," she says, and her eyes are *blazing*. 

"Uhh. So. Is one of you going to tell me what the bloody hell is going *on*?" 

Mum narrows her eyes, crossing her arms under her breasts. She looks like she's ready to beat the unholy hell out of *all* of them. 

Daddy looks at *Mum* — 

Licks his *lips* — 

Scratches in front of his *ear* — 

And Jason hums. "You probably don't want to know." 

"Oh, for fuck's — just *tell* me what the mission is, and I'll tell *you* if I can actually take time away from the garrison to *take* it."

Mum growls again — 

Jason inclines his *head* — 

And Daddy — gives him the proud look. 

The look-what-an-incredible-man-you've-grown-into look. 

Porthos is reasonably sure he'll be in his nineties before he's able to stand up to those with anything like equanimity, but he can at least — 

He nods to Daddy, turns to Mum — "I promise to hear you out about your concerns, Mum. You know I always do." 

She narrows her eyes even *more* — but she also nods, once, and sits. 

Daddy moves to sit beside her — 

She *looks* at him — 

Daddy *coughs* and stands straight again, and then grins at Jason. "Well, you've managed to dump me *squarely* in the shit again, brother. And you don't even want *me* for this mission." 

"I have a gift," Jason says, and opens one of his portals. 

There's a moment when they're all looking elsewhere, to avoid focusing on any of the terrible *things* that can lock onto your *soul* in those portals — 

"It's safe to look now," Jason says. "I've focused the portal on *precisely*... well." 

Porthos looks — 

And it's a dungeon. 

He's seen enough of them — from both sides of things, unfortunately — to know the look of them. 

It's a dungeon, and a particularly nasty-looking one, and the only apparent inhabitant is — a boy. 

A boy who can't *possibly* be old enough to belong —

Porthos looks for signs of injuries, torture — 

The boy is lying on his side, and — 

Yeah, there's pain on that face. 

More than can be explained by the few visible bruises — 

"The dungeon," Jason says, after a moment, "is in the bowels of a Church school." 

Porthos *and* his parents are growling for that. 

"Mm. The boy's name is Julián Ortiz — but that's not how you tend to know him —" 

"What —" 

"What are you —" 

"— when he exists on spheres where you *also* exist." 

That.

Porthos — breathes. 

Just breathes. 

Just —

He can hear Daddy doing the same thing. 

Mum is still keeping her control. 

Mum isn't — isn't looking at her *brother*, or — 

No, wait — "Who *is* he," Porthos says, and — shit, *that* was more of a growl than anything else. He — no, he needs to know. "What's his *real* name." 

"Aramis," Jason says. "Sometimes he takes a new last name. Most often he does not." 

"Who is he to *you*," Mum says, and she is — she's still *sharp*, but Porthos has to admit — 

He's moving closer to the portal. 

He's — 

He's studying the fine bones of Aramis's — and what kind of name *is* that? — face — 

His obviously deft fingers — 

No one had thought to break any — 

Are those trigger calluses?

"My others and I have yet to find an Aramis who is *not* an excellent marksman, whether or not he chooses to become a Musketeer." 

Daddy *rumbles* — 

"*Old* brother —" 

"And..." Jason looks to Mum with a rueful smile. "He is, sometimes, my student." 

She growls again. "Then why have *you* not —" 

"He is, most often, Porthos's and Athos's *beloved* brother, sister. On still other spheres... he is Porthos's mate." 

Daddy stops rumbling. 

Mum inhales sharply — "How long have you known." 

"I was brought this intelligence a week ago by one of my others. I've spent the past week confirming it, and... looking." 

Porthos — shudders. "There isn't a Porthos or Athos on that sphere." 

"No," Jason says. 

"There isn't —" Porthos growls and removes his brassard. The only weapons he's wearing right now are his two daggers. He *won't* need more than that. 

He won't — 

"I'm going," Porthos says, rolling his head on his neck once and turning to his Mum. "But I'm still listening to your objections." 

Mum shakes her head once. "Go. *Take* him." 

Porthos blinks once —

"The fact that you're surprised, son..." Daddy smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "We could've raised you a little better *this* way." 

"What — what do you —" 

"You're in your thirties and the *only* meaningful relationship you have —" 

Porthos opens his mouth — 

"— *outside* the family —" 

Porthos *closes* his mouth — 

"— is with *Athos*, who, truly, is not outside the family. *This* won't get us any closer to the All-Mother not asking your mother and me pointed questions about whether or not you'd like the nice, young set of twin brindle boarhounds She'd picked out for you —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"But. *But*, son." And Daddy smiles gently, moving up close and reaching up to cup Porthos's face. "You know exactly how to talk to young men, so I *won't* give you any godawful advice." 

"All right —" 

"But remember, son — in that world you're not a Musketeer *or* a Treville. You can stomp as many arsehole clerics as you'd *like*." 

Jason hums —

Mum shows her teeth and tucks *her* dagger in Porthos's belt — 

Right, then. Time to go. 

He hugs his parents tight — 

He kisses Jason on both cheeks and the mouth and hugs *him* tight — 

"Truly, I didn't need that — air —" 

And he walks through the portal.


	2. Someday your prince will come and murder the *shit* out of, like, *everyone*.

The footsteps are — wrong. 

Aramis didn't *hear* them soon enough — that is the first problem. He should've heard them on the stairs. At least halfway *down* the stairs!

These, he did not hear until they were all but in front of his cell. 

Additionally, there is much *steel* in these boots. They — 

Had the priests sent for an Inquisitor for him? 

They had threatened just that, but even a Church *father* would need *time* to make such a thing happen, given relations with Spain. Here, in Épernay...

Well, closer to Spain is *not* closer to the halls of power. 

Aramis swallows and does not, does *not*, let himself hope for the other things a strong boot could mean. 

He — 

"Aramis..."

And then... he must blink. 

He *must* blink, because *no* one knows his name here, his *true* name — 

His *mother* had known his name, but — she is. 

She is — gone. 

Had she told someone? 

Had she — somehow — *sent* someone? Before the ague had taken her? 

He must think and there is no *time* — no. 

No. 

He sits up, careful not to wince for the bruises and welts and *cuts* on his back and arse and thighs — 

"Right, I saw that," the *very* large man says. "They hurt you badly. You don't have to pretend. I'm here to help you — and get you out of here." 

Oh. Oh... but — "Who *are* you?" 

"Porthos du Vallon de Tréville. I'm a witch, and, going from what I can feel, so are you. Spirit-magery, right? Or do you know?" 

Aramis — blinks. Much. 

The man — *Treville* — is dressed like a *soldier*, like — 

There is a suspiciously *dark* patch on his leathers — 

"Where is your *brassard*?" 

Treville grins. It is... a kind of amazing. Broad and bright and — 

No, he must focus. He must — "Tell me!" 

"I took it off so I wouldn't get *this* sphere's Musketeers in trouble when I ripped through the arseholes who hurt *you*, Aramis," Treville says, and — winks. 

And — 

And — 

"Why do you know my *name*?" 

"Just a tick," Treville says, and covers the lock with his palm — 

His eyes glow green!

And then, suddenly, the lock and much of the bars holding it in place crumble to dust and rust and — 

"What — what..." 

"I'm an earth-mage. I'm a *dutiful* earth-mage who asks the All-Mother for favours, and repays Her for them every way I can —" 

"Tell me everything about this!" 

Another grin. "Absolutely, mate. Which first?" 

"I..."

"Here's a suggestion — while you're thinking about it, we make our way up those stairs and you show me exactly which priests need to *hurt* —" 

"*All* of them!" 

*This* smile is different on Treville's face. 

*This* smile is dark, predatory, *sharp*. 

Hungry. "Really, now." He licks his teeth. "Best approach?" 

"You — you have only knives —" 

"That's all I need." 

"There are ten of them!" 

His hungry smile widens. "Do you not *like* to make messes, Aramis...?"

For a moment, Aramis can only stare, gape-mouthed, at his — 

His *rescuer* — 

His.

And Treville — stops. 

His smile fades. 

He stops leaning in — he had been leaning *in* — "I'm sorry —" 

"No! Do not apologize —" 

"I'm being — I shouldn't run you over —" 

"You are not!" 

Treville bites the tip of his tongue — 

Lifts his nose as if to *smell* him better — no. "Are you sniffing me?" 

"Getting a better feel for you. For how *you're* feeling." 

"*Ask* me." 

And that gets the other — softer — smile back. "How are you feeling?" 

"My arse hurts, I want to know everything about who you are, and I am *very* concerned — why do you know my *name*?" 

Treville nods. "Right, let's clear that up while I heal you — are you all right with me touching your skin?" 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. "How *much* skin must you touch?" 

"None. But it'll be faster if I, say, touch your hand." 

Aramis blinks again. "You... but your All-Mother works through you? She... gives you power?" 

"She does. And She's given me *enough* recently that I can heal you at a distance, Aramis —" 

"But you will *use* more power than you would if you *were* to touch me." 

"Yes, but —" 

Aramis holds out his hand. 

Treville *starts* to lift his nose — lowers it. "Are you *sure*." 

"Yes, do it, Treville!" 

Another smile — and Treville presses his fingertips to Aramis's palm. "No one calls me Treville but the people who don't *know* me, Aramis. I'm Porthos. Just Porthos. Though if you *do* enlist as a Musketeer, you'll have to call me 'sir' at least some of the time." 

"I —" 

"Just a tick," Porthos says, eyes glowing again — 

And Aramis feels — warm. 

Not hot, not sweaty, not uncomfortable — warm. 

Held. 

Soothed. 

*Safe*, somehow *safe* — 

"There are many spheres other than this one and the one I'm from, Aramis." 

"I — I —" 

"One of my parents' lovers — an immortal British blood- and fire- and shadow-mage named Jason Blood — *walks* the spheres all the time. *Visits* them. Visits versions of *himself* on other spheres — and gives them hints and bits of intelligence to make their lives easier." 

"But — that —" 

"Almost. Almost. One Jason told *our* Jason about you. About how, on all *sorts* of spheres, you were my *brother*, and the brother of my brother — and best mate — Athos. How you were an incredible shot even on spheres where you *weren't* a Musketeer. How you were my —" But Treville — *Porthos* — clicks his teeth shut on that and shakes his head. "That's nothing we have to think about." 

"What? Tell me!" 

"Aramis —" 

"It obviously made you wish to rescue me, so it must be important! Tell me!" 

And Porthos... measures him. 

*Weighs* him with his *eyes*. 

Aramis stands straight and lifts his chin — 

Narrows his *eyes* — 

Porthos growls and steps back, eyes losing their glow. "On *some* spheres... you're my mate." 

"Your." 

"I'm a shifter, Aramis." 

"A... what?" 

Porthos smiles *ruefully* — and then lolls his *long*, *animal* tongue — 

And his ears *lengthen* and grow *fur* — 

And — 

He starts to grow a *muzzle* — 

Aramis does not step *back* — 

And then Porthos *shakes* himself — and Porthos is...

Porthos *looks* human again. 

Human... enough. 

"I'm a dog, on the inside."

"I can see this thing! Are *all* Musketeers dogs on your sphere?" 

"No —" 

"Are they all witches?" 

"No —" 

Aramis frowns. "Do you lie to your *brothers*?" 

And that — makes Porthos smile again. "No. But certain questions aren't really asked... if you catch my meaning. They weren't asked when it was my father, either." 

"I." Aramis frowns more deeply. 

"Mm?" 

"Are you saying your — your *witchcraft* is *accepted*?" 

"That I am, Aramis. I keep things a little subtle — and I make sure the men heal from their injuries when I can get *to* them fast enough. It's not so difficult a thing." 

"Is the Church not... not... you know what I am saying!" 

Another gentle smile. "I do, Aramis, and... all I can say is this: There are all *kinds* of soldiers — true, real, *hard* men — who are as pious as any man would like... but there aren't so many soldiers who would make good *churchmen*." And Porthos... raises his eyebrows. 

"Are you... teaching me?" 

"I... suppose I am —" 

"You are good at it, so far!" 

"Thank you —" 

"And. I do not hurt. Anywhere," Aramis says, and cannot keep the wonder out of his voice any longer. He strokes down over his hips, where the cane had bitten especially deeply — 

All he can feel are his *old* scars. 

He feels as hale and limber and *healthy* as he ever *has* — 

"I know that look," Porthos says, with a soft laugh. "You're *going* to be more tired than usual *soon*." 

"Oh — but I do not feel —" 

"You will. That's just what the healing does." And Porthos grins again. "*Please* show me the best way to get to those abusing fucks *first*." 

And Aramis — can't. 

He can't stop himself from panting — 

From *reaching* for Porthos's belt — 

"Is that so, lad? I suppose I do see some knife-work on you," Porthos says, and slips the smaller dagger from his belt, handing it to Aramis, and then gesturing to the stairs. "Lead the way." 

"Mm. Do *not* call me lad again," Aramis says, as he takes the stairs quietly, quietly — 

Porthos *rumbles* quietly. "Anything you *say*." 

And Aramis would like to know... many things. 

*Many* things. 

First among those things right now, however, is how much Porthos *trusts* him, versus how much he trusts his own skills and abilities. 

Aramis is leading him a necessarily twisting path — 

Aramis is leading him up and down and *up* stairs again — 

Into and *out* of darkness — 

Surely Porthos must wonder if Aramis hopes to regain the good graces of the priests by bringing an intruder to them for them to punish? 

*He* would wonder — 

He would *itch* and *sweat* between his shoulder blades, waiting for the knife to sink *in* — 

He is itching and sweating *for* Porthos — 

He — 

"I am *not* leading you *astray*," Aramis whispers fiercely — 

"I know that," Porthos answers calmly. "I can smell it." 

He.

He...

He is a dog. 

This, Aramis must admit, *does* answer many questions.

Even as it raises still more. 

Even — what else can he smell?

What else can he smell right *now* — 

"Do you need steadying, Aramis?" 

"I — no — I will calm myself," Aramis says, and guides them into an alcove — 

Shadowed and black — 

*Full* with the two of them — 

Porthos doesn't smell like a dog. 

Porthos smells like a man, like a soldier, like leather and steel and gunpowder — and like surprisingly cheap soap for someone with such expensive leathers and daggers. 

He smells like the soldiers Aramis would always run to in the little inn in — his father's village. 

Not his. 

He feels like —

His fingertips had been rough, and he has no doubts about his ability to fight and brutalize ten men — 

He has talked about the chance for Aramis to become a Musketeer!

Even though Aramis is a *witch*. 

Even though Aramis has no family, no prospects, no *money* — 

"You're not getting calmer over there..." 

"You are supposed to *ask* how I am!" 

"How are you?" 

"How will I *earn* my *keep* while I am training to be a Musketeer? Mm?" 

"Uh. Well. I was hoping you would live with me —" 

"And do *what*?" 

"— though you could live at the garrison if you preferred. I really should've thought." 

"I —" 

"Look, if you're worrying that I'm a rapist, get that *right* out of your head. You smell fantastic now that you're not in horrible pain, but rapists deserve their bollocks nailed to their foreheads by my Daddy *before* I start to work on them *myself*." 

"But if you believe that you *paid* for me —" 

"I *don't* own slaves," Porthos says. And — that was a growl. "Mum was a slave once. She *still* has the whip-scars on her *back*." 

"Oh — *oh*. I am so sorry!" 

"Easy. You didn't mean to raise my hackles. Did you." 

"*No* —" 

"You just want to make sure you're not about to wind up in a worse position than you're already in. Right?" 

"Yes, I — *yes*." 

"Well, I *live* with my family. Mum, Daddy, Uncle Jason —" 

"The... immortal?" 

"That's right. And my three younger siblings — Lucien, Jeannette, and Odile. Uncle Kitos and Uncle Reynard used to live with us, too, but when Uncle Kitos got promoted to Captain, he had to take rooms of his own. Uncle Reynard went with him — they're over all the time. Same with Aunt Marie-Angelique, Uncle Laurent, their children Athos, Thomas — Jeannette is betrothed to him —" 

"All right..." 

"And little Selene. So, you know, you have a nice, big family. Lots of people to talk to." 

Aramis tries to — 

To understand — 

"Porthos..." 

"Mm? What's wrong?" 

"They are not my family." 

"Well, all right, but they *will* be. Because uh." And Porthos laughs... nervously. 

That... that is worrying. "Because *what*." 

"First of all, let me *reiterate* that I'm not only not going to *force* you into anything, I'm *also* not going to *push* you or *ask* you —" 

"You think I am your mate." 

There is a scraping sound in the black — Porthos is scrubbing his hands over his face. "Your scents... I've never. I've never." 

Aramis nods and keeps nodding and doesn't know — 

"What I'll probably do is move in with Athos for a while, until I can —" 

"You will leave me *alone* with your giant family?" 

"I. Yes?"

"No."

"Aramis —" 

"*No*." 

"Aramis, you —" 

"Who's out here?!"

And Aramis's heart leaps into his throat — 

But Porthos is already moving, already — 

Aramis doesn't *see* what he does before Father Michel, who had always *seemed* so big and so difficult to get *around* is choking on the floor and gripping at his own throat — 

*Clawing* at his own throat — 

Darkening as if he has no *air* — 

His eyes are *bulging* — 

"He's going to die in *horrible* pain in just a bit, Aramis. Who's next?" 

"What — what did you *do*?" 

"Crushed his throat. It's a little trick with the knuckles — I'll show you how when you get some more muscle on you." 

"*Oh* —" And Aramis is smiling helplessly — 

Father Michel is *writhing* on the ground — 

Aramis kicks him in the balls. 

"*Very* nice," Porthos says, and gestures down the hall.

Aramis *giggles*, high and helpless, and jogs.

They find most of the rest of the priests alone in their rooms, which is horrible, because Aramis has no way to *prove* how horrible *they* are — 

But. 

Porthos takes his word. 

Porthos does not ask him to *repeat* himself. 

Porthos only uses his *knives* *rarely*. 

He is so — 

So — 

Aramis takes every opportunity to get in one last blow of his own. 

Porthos *gives* him every opportunity to do so, and, when they're done — 

When Porthos is licking the blood from his knuckles and cheeks and grinning at him — 

When Aramis is grinning back, and the school feels so empty of pain, so empty of malice and heresy and *pain* —

Aramis laughs aloud, laughs and giggles and — "I do not care if you *are* a demon I somehow summoned with my wickedness! You have made me so happy!" 

And Porthos's expression turns... quirked. "I'm glad of that, Aramis, but uh. Well, Jason will teach you all you need to know about demons."

"I —" 

"I most assuredly will," says the man stepping out of a shadow which was not *there* a moment ago. He has long, dark-red hair, is wearing wool and *chain mail*, and a *bastard* sword. 

And — he's smiling. 

"Hail and well met, Aramis. My name is Jason Blood. It's an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance." 

Aramis blinks — stops that. "Why?" 

Blood laughs richly. "Because I — and Porthos's parents — have been watching every moment of your burgeoning acquaintance. We're all enchanted — if you'll pardon the pun. Additionally, on *some* spheres, you agree to become my student. I am... hopeful." 

"You wish a student?" 

"Always." 

"What do *you* charge?" 

Blood laughs again. "Hard work. Dedication. *Focus*. I do not have *any* sort of sexual relationships with my students unless and until they *ask* for such things."

"Do you *manipulate* them into asking for it?" 

"I — one moment." And Blood turns to Porthos. "Perhaps I should have mentioned — *many* Aramises were raised in Paris brothels before being yanked away from hearth and home to get stuck in places like this." 

Porthos nods sagely. 

"Why do you know so much about me!" 

"I'm an incurable busybody, Aramis. And? I know how to *scry*." 

"I... do not know that word." 

"Will you let me teach you? I promise I can make you very, very good at it..." 

And this...

"Don't run him over, Jason. Let's — let's just get him a nice, comfortable, private place to rest —" 

"Oh, absolutely. Forgive me, mon grand. I can be fathomlessly greedy for the brilliant, powerful, and mad." 

Aramis rears back — 

Porthos snorts and claps Aramis on the shoulder. "Believe it or not? He meant that as a compliment." 

"I." 

"*Are* you ready to come back with us? Is there maybe some other lad here you want to say something to?" 

"There are *many* boys here I want to *hit*, Porthos. But. I must remember that they are *children* and do not *know* any better." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Like you?" 

"*I* have known better for a very long *time*." 

Another brilliant *smile* — "And you hate excuses for yourself, too, I'd wager. Right, then. Jason?"

"Mm. As you say," Blood says, and opens... something. 

There is a *smudge* on the air, like the world was rubbed with a brick of charcoal, and Aramis can feel... vastness, beyond it. 

He looks — 

And Porthos covers his eyes. "Don't do that." 

Aramis growls — 

"Truly, mon grand, it's for the best. You can't look at *anything* too closely in there — it leaves you open for rather vicious *attack*." 

"But... is that not where we must go?" 

"It is. But you must strive to look at nothing but my mail until we're on the other side. It won't be long." 

Porthos squeezes Aramis's shoulder with his other hand. "Not to worry, Aramis. We've all done this countless times." 

Aramis breathes in — and nods. 

He has burned many bridges tonight. 

He has taken part in the murders of *ten* men — ten of God's own priests, according to the Church's lies.

If he is walking into Hell, he will follow the devil's rules. 

For now.


	3. Nothing of any worth can be built on a foundation of lies.

The early morning light in the de la Fère courtyard is astringent and a little painful on a day when his body *knows* he *could* be sleeping in, but — 

"Not that I'm complaining in the least, brother, but what brings you here this early?" Athos has the tray with the tea, having scooped it right out of the hands of one of the retainers — 

*Athos* looks like he's feeling no pain, at all, this morning — 

*Athos* never sleeps in. 

And... "Aramis doesn't sleep in." 

"Hm...? Oh." 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and puts his face in his hands. 

"I..." 

And then there's a long, thoughtful pause as Athos pours tea for both of them and gives Porthos a pastry Porthos is too bloody *hard* to *enjoy* — 

"Porthos..." 

Porthos growls.

"You miscalculated when you told him he was your mate." 

"I can't *lie* to him, brother!" And Porthos drops his hands. 

Athos raises an eyebrow. It speaks volumes, as usual. 

"I *can't*. *Literally*. Have you ever watched Daddy try to tell a story — *any* kind of story — to Mum?" 

Athos blinks. "I... hm. I suppose I always thought it was simply a peculiar aspect of his nature, given that you've always been able to be just as manipulative as we've both needed you to be." 

"Right, yeah, but, see, Daddy could do that, *too*. With *other people*." 

"True... hell." 

"Yeah." 

"I — *hell*." 

"*Yeah*." 

"How honest have you *been* with him?" 

"Well, not very, so far." 

"Oh. No?" 

"*So* far, begging abjectly to retain my *honour* as his *host* has allowed me to shut his questions up." 

"It's... been three days." 

"Yeah." 

"You don't think he'll make it a week." 

"*Fuck*, no." 

Athos nods thoughtfully and sips his tea. 

Porthos sips his own. 

Sniffs the — excellent — pastry. 

Doesn't eat it. 

"What do you feel would happen were you to actually be honest with him?" 

"I'd seduce him," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully, sharing an image from one of his — *many* fantasies: Lifting Aramis up in his hands; wrapping Aramis's long, strong, slim legs around his hips; and *working* his little hole with his fingers while *biting*. 

Athos winces. "You don't think you'd be able to stop yourself." 

"He's bloody fourteen and I am who I am. I could smell him getting hot for me... a lot of different times these past few days —" 

Athos blinks. "Then —"

"It's too *manipulative*, Athos. He's young. He's *young*. You remember what we were like at that age —" 

"Fucking like animals, if I recall correctly." 

"Right, yeah, and literally *anything* could set us off. Do you remember what happened the day your mum got sweaty at the breakfast table because it was so fucking *hot*?" 

"I remember limping for several days afterward, yes —" 

"It's — fuck. *Anything can set a boy off*. So I start talking about what being mated means, what I think about with him, what I *want*..." 

"I... yes, I believe I see —" 

"What happens if I seduce him and then he *feels* manipulated?" 

Athos winces *harder* this time. 

They're *both* picturing an Aramis with an inescapable *darkness* in his eyes, an inescapable *bleakness*. 

The boys who get used *badly* — 

The *children* who have too much of sex too *soon* with the wrong *people* — 

"But —" 

"Athos —" 

"Have you talked to your *parents* about this?" 

"Yeah, I have. Daddy's of the opinion that I should keep getting to know Aramis, take things as slow as possible." 

"That sounds sensible." 

"Doesn't it? At which point I tell him some of things Aramis *says* to me, and *asks* me, and Daddy is suddenly of the opinion that Aramis doesn't yet know the way to your house." 

"Oh. And... your mother?" 

"Already answering Aramis's questions about what mating meant for *her*." 

"*Hell*. She's — rushing you." 

"Yeah. See, they can *both* smell Aramis just as well as I can, and they know he's *mine* —" 

"But if he *is* yours —" 

"He's not *earth*, Athos. There's — there's *lore* for this. He could be mine and his *mind* could be all twisted round *against* it. *Forever*. Fuck — I can't fuck this *up*." 

"Then be honest with him." 

"What — *what*?" 

"Be *honest* with him." 

"*Athos* —" 

"How many times have you told me that nothing of any worth can be built on lies, brother?" And Athos cocks his head to the side. "How many times have you quoted *both* of your parents on the importance of honesty — 

"I —" 

"He's fourteen, yes. But he's also chosen to enlist. To become one of *us*. To become our *brother* —" 

Porthos growls *hungrily* —

"You will only hurt — and *anger* — him if you choose to treat him more delicately than you treat the other cadets, Porthos." 

"What — I — I wouldn't — shit — *shit* —" 

Athos raises an eyebrow again. 

And Porthos — breathes. 

(Yes, do that.) 

Yeah, I — "He's made his own choices, Athos." 

"He has." 

"He's — he's chosen his own *life* —" 

"He has." 

"And — I have to treat him that way." 

Athos smiles sharply over the rim of his mug, crossing his legs and leaning back. "Will he be your little brother, brother...?" 

"Fuck, fuck, *yes* —" 

"Or your little boy...?" 

Porthos's cock jerks as he *yips* — 

Athos laughs *evilly*. 

"You're a right bastard, brother."


	4. Time in the doghouse.

The first two days of his training, the de Tréville carriage picked him up and dropped him off, and he could catch only glimpses of Porthos during the long days of good, hard work.

He had been forced to acknowledge that the man had *not* promised not to hide from him. 

He —

There is much strangeness here. 

There is much that Aramis can't quite *understand* about this place, where the gentry act like soldiers, even when they are *not* soldiers — 

The de Tréville household is run with both military discipline and military... he is not sure of the words he desires. 

The servants are all happy here — that much was clear the first *night*, when they had all gathered to welcome him *with* the rest of the family. 

The maids giggle and run through the halls, the kitchen boys romp like the children they *are* — 

Only the Master of Accounts is a serious man, and he, Aramis has learned, was once one of the quartermasters. 

Aramis has also learned that this man — this *Alaire* — knows *all* things which happen in the household, and quite a few things which happen beyond it, and acts accordingly. 

Already Aramis has been served many of his favourite foods!

Already his measurements have been taken for clothes, and — 

And...

There are the other children. 

Lucien is a scholar and courtier in training. He has much of Porthos's height, but not his *size*. He is kind and brilliant and attractive, in his way, and has offered *all* of his personal library for Aramis's use, and their future conversations. 

This is — is *valuable*. 

Jeannette is a tall young *woman*, and *also* beautiful — her dark curls and pale brown skin mark her as Porthos's sister immediately, as do her soft mouth and — 

And there are times when Aramis finds himself *pricing* his new roommates. 

It was something he did habitually when he lived with his mother at Madame Margaud's, of course. How much would that bruise take off that one's price, how much would that surprisingly lovely fruitseller be worth if she... and so on. 

And, when he'd been sent to that — that awful school — 

He'd done it with the boys.

He's doing it here, too, and blushing like a *child* for it. 

The fact that Jeannette, with her court-ready manners and her gentle tones and her musical laugh and her *wicked* eyes would earn money to make any whore's *teeth* gnash is *of no consequence*. 

She is betrothed. 

She is betrothed to *other gentry*. 

Her court-ready manners will be *used at court*. 

She has taught him much, already. 

So has Odile. 

Odile ties *her* curls back roughly and with little art, uses a dagger at *least* as well as most of the *adult* whores of Aramis's acquaintance, and uses a *sword* — 

In *skirts* — 

("Porthos trained me." 

"This is so?" 

"And Daddy,") she'd said, and worked on her footwork in the garden while Aramis had watched, too exhausted from his own training at the garrison to do more than observe all the ways Odile could *murder* him, despite being a lean young woman no taller than most at age fifteen. 

("Did they also train Lucien and Jeannette?")

A scoffing noise. She hadn't paused her footwork. ("What do *you* think?"

"I think you believe I have spent more time in your home than I —" 

"It's your home, too, and you're no fool, Aramis. You're Porthos's mate. That means a lot. You're also *exactly* who you are — and we've all seen you studying everything. *Everything*. So. What do you *think*.") And she'd put up her sword and raised an eyebrow at him. 

He'd thought he liked her very much, and wanted very much to *stab* Porthos — gently, only gently — for not *talking* to him about being his mate. But. He'd spread his hands. "I think... that Lucien and Jeannette had no patience for this. No *desire* for this." 

Odile had nodded once and gone back to her footwork. 

("I..."

"Mm? What is it, Aramis?" 

"Do you ever wish that you had not had this desire?") 

And *that* noise was blatantly *rude* — ("Aramis."

"Yes?" 

"Are you asking me if I've ever wanted to be someone other than *myself*?"

"Yes.")

And she had smiled savagely, viciously, *predatorily* — 

Her *teeth* had lengthened in her soft *mouth* — 

("No."

"This is well, I think." 

"I take it you've never wanted to be anyone other than *yourself*, Aramis...?")

Aramis had smiled his own savage smile, and thought of... oh, many dead priests. 

And Porthos. 

And then... 

Then, he had thought, for just a moment, of what his very short life would have been like *without* Porthos. He'd narrowed his eyes. ("Never.")

She'd nodded then, braid bouncing as she lunged and parried. ("We knew you'd fit right in, you know."

"You could... smell it?" 

"Or feel it. Something like that. You belong here, Aramis. We're just learning all the *ways* you belong here.") 

So. 

This is... 

Aramis is, of course, accustomed to people who learn what there is to know about a person and *then* decide whether or not they belong — 

Or choose to learn *nothing* about a person before they decide that they *don't* belong — 

But this...

And there is Porthos's mother. 

Amina. 

She is tall, though not so tall as her Jeannette, and dark, and eschews court fashion as a matter of course. Her wrap-dresses and scarves are beautiful and make her look like a visiting queen from some distant land.

The — uniformly — gold jewelry helps with this. 

She is regal, and intimidating. 

And then — she laughs. 

She cackles. 

She — she *hoots*, and guffaws, and sniggers, and giggles like a child. She laughs with the maids, and tickles the kitchen boys, and slaps the cook on the back when he makes a particularly bawdy comment about Porthos's father — and *he* *is* Treville — and his *love* for young boys. 

Aramis must watch for these things. 

Aramis must — 

But Amina — 

She had taken him aside immediately after breakfast his first full day in Treville's home, and explained... much. 

How Treville and *his* brothers had met her in a teahouse near the Court of *Miracles*, of all places. 

How his brothers had tried to seduce her, but how she had had eyes only *for* Treville, who had been prophesied to one day be the man who would mean everything to her, and *be* all things to her. 

("So. I set out to *make* him right for me." 

"He was not?" 

"*Oh*, no. He was a *wild* one, and did not know a *thing* to do with women!" 

"Or... girls?") 

And she had eyed him shrewdly. ("You have heard the talk of my husband and his *legions* of pretty boys.") 

"From *you*, Madame.") 

She'd snickered. ("Well enough. I will tell you this, Aramis: He is not a rapist. He is not a *predator*. *All* of his boys are old enough to enjoy themselves immensely, and he tells them no lies. When we *did* begin stepping out together, the boys would constantly come crawling out of the *woodwork* to *reminisce* *cheerfully* with him about old *times*."

"I. You... tolerated this?" 

"It was much more entertaining than the way my *men* would come up to us and try to start *fights* with my sweet brother — or me! Or, of course, there were the ones who would simply *weep*.") 

And Aramis had licked his lips...

Amina had raised a thick eyebrow — 

("I..." 

"Yes, Aramis?" 

"I... suppose you both had lives before each other." 

"And after, precious boy. And *after*." 

"Precious — no. You continued to see other people after you were together?" 

"We did. We are *dogs*, not humans, Aramis. Even before we were *made* into dogs —" 

"You —" 

"I will tell you *all* of this story, precious boy, simply wait.") 

Aramis had — not clenched his fists. Much. 

And Amina had rumbled at him like a great, dark hound. ("Thank you for your patience. I promise I will not tease you — I am a very impatient woman myself, you see." 

"I — yes?" 

"*Oh*, yes. This is why I could not wait for nature to take its course with my sweet brother. We may have been fated to be together, but I *needed* him. I needed him then and *there*, as wild and rough and strange as he was to me. So. I went to my guardians, who were all powerful witches — earth-mages, like all of us here — and I told them that I had finally met my man. 

"They tried to dissuade me from being hasty with him, from *taking* him for my own. They tried *many* things. So. I told them that if *they* did nothing, *I* would give him my blood and take *his* the very next time I saw him. I was bluffing — I was a weak witch and so was he, and I knew little about what I could do with such things. They, however, saw my resolve. And they agreed to bind us. 

"In order to do this, *because* we were weak, they had to first augment our powers. In order to do *that*, because we were earth and aligned with dogs, they had to first bind us to dog-spirits. This is very complicated magic! Very, very few people could have done what they did — and they could *not* have done it without working together —" 

"I... how did you... why did Treville *agree* to this?") 

And Amina had laughed *very* hard, and *very* loudly — 

But Aramis could not even get *annoyed*, because — 

It was all just too much, too strange, too — 

("He was *wild*, precious boy! He was wild *inside*, too. As I started to say, even before we were bound to dogs, we *were* dogs. We sniffed too much. We hated to *bathe*. We growled. That sort of thing. 

"And we were wild for each *other*." 

"But — you said he did not know what to *do* with women!" 

"And he did *not*. But that does not mean he was not always sniffing around me and coming to my rooms and sleeping in my bed, wrapping his strong arms around me and gripping me *tight*.") 

And Aramis had *blinked*. And —

Not asked. 

Not — no. ("But... he... did not...?") 

Another *raucous* laugh. ("No, precious boy. He *tried* to — once. I did not *let* him, because I knew his body was not where his *heart* was. *Yet*." 

"Oh." 

"The binding — which I told him everything *I* knew about — changed that. As my sweet brother will tell you himself: dogs are less discriminating than *men*." ) 

And that... ("Madame —" 

"You *could* be less formal with me. You are the mate of my son. You *will* be my son." 

"I!") 

And Amina had laughed again, bright and loud. ("Perhaps we will save this until you have settled in. What was your question?" 

"I — I..." 

"You no longer know, precious boy...?" 

"Are *you* less discriminating?") And that was more of a blurt than a question, but — 

("*Oh*, yes. As an example, you will soon meet the other *adults* of our pack — including Porthos's Aunt Marie-Angelique...") And Amina's eyes had been hot, lascivious, wild, *hungry* — 

Her laugh had been as predatory — 

And that...

That was worth other questions. 

Questions about — 

("When will Porthos claim me?") 

She had stopped laughing and *blinked* — ("When did — no. You did *not* ask him to do it." 

"I —" 

"You are not *ready* for him to do it." 

"I do not know if I *want* him to do it!") 

And Amina had spread her hands. ("He will not touch you.") 

Aramis had frowned. 

("Did he *not* tell you that?" 

"I..." 

"He *did* tell you that, but you did not believe him?" 

"*You* speak of wildness in your family, Madame.") 

And Amina had rumbled. "So I do, and there is *much*... but we teach our children *control*, precious boy. They do not touch another person sexually until they *can* control themselves. Until they can *stop* themselves even in their greatest need.") 

Aramis had raised an eyebrow. 

Amina had laughed — and leaned back to cross her legs under her wrap-dress. ("Test him on this, precious boy... when you are ready. Test him *viciously*. He *will* prove himself." 

"Even though I am his *mate*?" 

"Listen to me, Aramis,") she had said, and she had used his name like a *weapon*. 

He had not been able to keep himself from sitting straighter, more — 

More *attentively* — 

("It is said that my sweet brother and I were mated *before* our powers were augmented and we were bound and bound to dogs —" 

"Oh. Yes?" 

"*Yes*. But... we could not hurt each other, then. Not without *meaning* to do it.") 

*Her* meaning is clear. ("You hurt each other *after* you were bound." 

"We did. And *reveled* in every bruise, every scratch, every drop of *blood*.") 

Aramis *grunts* — 

("But then we had *children* — and we watched our children grow into power we would not have been able to *comprehend* when *we* were children. And? We were afraid." 

"You were... careful with them." 

"We were *brutal* with them. We did not — *could* not — let them *ever* hurt a *human* lover by accident. And it was clear that Porthos *meant* to take a human lover *immediately*.") 

Aramis inhales — ("Who... was..."

"*Is*, precious boy. *Is*. His brother — *your* brother — *Athos*, who was Olivier d'Athos then." 

"I... see.") 

And Amina's eyes had... sparkled. ("You will meet him very soon, too. He — and Porthos — will be giving you the lion's share of your training.") 

Aramis had not been able to stop himself from colouring. 

("Will you wish your mate to be faithful only to you, precious boy...?"

"He is a dog —"

"That is not what I asked.") 

And Aramis had —

There was a correct *answer* to that question, and it wasn't — 

It wasn't — 

("Be easy, precious boy. Be *comfortable*."

"Madame —" 

"The fact that you are Porthos's mate? Means that you are the single most important person in his life. The single most important *thing* in his life. He would deny his *life* for you. He would deny his *family* for you. He would give up his *commission* for you —") 

And Aramis had *grunted* — 

("Think about that. Think *hard*, precious boy. Your needs are *his* needs now —" 

"Doesn't that. Doesn't that mean that *his* needs are *my* needs?") 

And she'd given him a curious look for that, and a *shrewd* look — 

A *long* look — 

A *very* long — 

("Madame?" 

"*That* I do not know, precious boy." 

"You... don't?") 

And Amina had smiled ruefully. ("You are spirit; we are earth. This makes you different *enough* from us...") And she had pinned him with a look. ("You could be... independent."

"You say that as if it is a terrible thing." 

"Dogs travel — live, love, breathe, *exist* — in *packs*, precious boy. Make of that what you will.") 

They have talked more since then. 

She — 

She teaches him about mating, about what it was like, for her. 

She does not scruple at sharing intimate details. 

He knows, now, that a part of Porthos is *never* human in appearance. 

His entire *blood*-family is just the same, though the women wear their 'marks' more subtly. 

He knows — 

("My son is particularly large —" 

"You have *looked*?") 

And Amina had — honked. ("Not recently, no. But my sweet brother — and the rest of the pack — was naked with Porthos *often* at the garrison. You will be, too, of course, but... I thought to give you *preparation*." 

"I have seen big cocks before!" 

"In the brothel...?" 

"I — yes." 

"You have no reason for shame —" 

"I am not ashamed!") 

She had studied him for a long moment — and then nodded once. ("Then you have no reason to fear that we — any of us — will *think* you have reason to be shamed.") 

And that...

She'd nodded again. ("I promise you. And I understand that it may take you some time to believe that. *I* needed time to believe I had no reason to be defensive of *my* past, after all." 

"Oh. Yes?" 

"*Oh*, yes. Now. Shall we speak more of this? Or of my son's knot? You only have ten minutes before you have to leave for the garrison...") 

Amina is a wicked, *wicked* temptress. 

And Porthos is — 

Has been — 

He goes to Porthos first in the mornings, of course. The family had not been able to give Aramis the suite next to Porthos's — it is the corner suite, and Porthos had tucked Odile in it when she had been much younger — but the maids have asked him three separate times if he would not like to, perhaps, move some of his things *into* Porthos's suite. 

If he would not be more *comfortable* that way. 

If — well. 

Whenever someone — *anyone* — sees him knocking on Porthos's door, there are vast, boundless smiles of approval and hope. 

And Porthos...

Porthos never bars him entry. 

Even when he is only just rising for the day, washing himself and — 

And — 

And, of course, he is beautiful. 

Tall. 

Big. 

*Broad* —

Strong and scarred and powerful and — 

And it is too difficult at times — many times! — not to stare. His skin is so —

Aramis has spent much time staring at Porthos's *back*, since Porthos always seems to *know* when Aramis is *about* to lose himself to staring, and then he *turns* — 

*Politely* — 

But Aramis can always see his blush, his flush — 

The rise of his *obviously* mighty cock behind his breeches, and there is frustratingly no way to *discern* its inhumanity this way — 

But. 

He goes to Porthos. 

And he asks — 

("Tell me of mating!" 

"I —" 

"Do not hide it from me!" 

"Aramis —") 

And he *asks* — 

("*Porthos*." 

"Aramis. *Please*. Let us talk about other things first, all right? Let —"

"*Why*." 

"Because I'm already hot, and talking about it is just going to make me *more* hot,") Porthos had said. To his *mirror*. ("You deserve better than that —" 

"You do not *know* me!" 

"I know you're my mate, and I know you're living in my home. I owe you the best of myself. Please let me give it to you,") Porthos had said, solemn and low.

And Aramis had been the one flushed — 

Aramis had been the one — 

Rising — 

("Aramis..."

"It. It is time. For breakfast." 

"That it is. I'll meet you down there.") 

The other two conversations he'd had with Porthos had gone much the same way, with Porthos eating quickly after that — *his* court-manners could use *work* — and then leaving for the garrison. 

Amina has kept him back.

Today is going to be different. 

Today — 

*He* needs no carriage. 

If he is not to be allowed to *walk* to the garrison, then there is still no reason why he can't ride!

He may not be allowed the use of a garrison horse, one of the fine and beautiful blacks that frankly make him *salivate*, but —

But. 

So. He does *not* go to Porthos on the fourth day. 

He goes to Porthos's *father*, the former Captain. The man who *is* Treville.

The man has been warm to him from the beginning — perhaps even warmer, in some ways, than all the others — and is obviously kind, and is equally obviously invested in Aramis's comfort and happiness, for reasons of his own. 

He shows Aramis immediately to the stables he keeps near his rooms in the city, and allows Aramis his *pick* of the horses!

Still, it is a test, of sorts. 

Aramis can see that by the measuring light in the man's eyes. 

So. He examines all of the horses thoroughly, noting their universal good health and high-spiritedness, their ages and *personalities* — 

But. 

*Both* blacks, though lovely and fine, are temperamental enough to require riders either stronger than he is, or more capable of giving them all of their *attention*. 

It would be dangerous to try to do such a thing on a *Paris* street. 

Neither of them try to *bite* him, but it is clear that someone less experienced *with* horses... well. 

He strokes their noses and feeds them little treats. 

"Are those the two you're deciding between, son...?" Treville's voice is so, so neutral. 

He has, perhaps, been *waiting* to test a boy with these blacks — blacks which *would* tempt a boy in training to be a Musketeer. Aramis smiles. "No. I am not strong enough." 

"No...?" 

"No, sir. I would, perhaps, be able to handle this older male on flat, clear land, in open country..." Aramis shakes his head. "I am *good* at calming horses, and I am a good rider. I am not *that* good," he says and turns to Treville, who is smiling warmly again. 

"Then which...?" 

Aramis moves to the large, younger female bay. "This one. She is gentle, and already likes me — I like her!" And Aramis strokes her nose and feeds *her* his dried apples. 

She whickers and lips his fingers — 

Treville hums. "Excellent choice, son. Her name is Gabrielle. I bought her for Jeannette in a futile attempt to get her more interested in riding. She takes her out every several weeks at *best*." 

"Oh, no!" 

"The stableboys love to give her her exercise, son. It's all right. But... it would be nice if she had someone to love her more permanently...?" 

Aramis flushes — "I —" 

"I know. You're still deciding whether or not you want to stay with us. But... let Gabrielle help you make your decision." 

Gabrielle is lipping his hair. 

He feeds her more apple — "I — who rides the *blacks*?" 

"Meurtrière," Treville says, pointing to the female, "and Éventreur. They're both mine. Éventreur took me into *many* battles. Meurtrière didn't get the chance to, but I love her just the same." 

"Oh — *oh*." And Aramis looks Treville over again *helplessly*. 

Treville smiles wryly. "Ministers to the King — and Captains of the King's Musketeers — are *not* allowed to ride the kinds of horses that... well. You know precisely what kinds of horses those are. Don't you, son." 

"Yes! I do! You must miss it terribly!"

"I truly do. Which is why I take them both out to my estates in the country and ride them both suicidally fast as often as I can." And Treville winks — 

"Oh —"

"They both miss garrison life, though..." Treville shakes his head. "Porthos has a standing order to keep an eye out for strong enough riders among the men to take Meurtrière on. She's still young enough for the field."

"I —" 

"*You* will focus on your training just the way your lieutenants tell you to do, and not rush yourself one iota. We *won't* have you set yourself back with foolish, reckless injuries." 

"I am not a reckless fool! Sir." 

Treville smiles at him. "You roasted those priests over the coals, didn't you." 

"Whenever possible! *They* were fools, and ignorant, and — and *bullies* —" 

Treville growls, low and flat and *utterly* animal. 

Aramis blinks — and reflexively checks on the horses. He had forgotten, for just a moment, that Treville was a dog, *too* — 

But the horses are all well —

And Treville calms himself quickly. "You have my apologies, son —" 

"No, all is well!" 

"Is it?" 

"I appreciated Porthos's animalistic tendencies very much when he turned them on the priests." 

Treville cocks his head and flares his nostrils — and then visibly *pauses*. "But you prefer to be *asked* questions." 

"Yes —" 

"You know that we can't help taking in your scents, though...?" 

"Just the same." 

Treville inclines his head. "We had started to believe that Porthos wouldn't have a mate of his own. That *none* of our children would, whether or not they found love." 

"I... know that you are all... hopeful..." 

"'Hopeful' is a very small word, son, but this is not about putting pressure on you. I just want you to know that we have had *experience* with witches who aren't earth. We may be a pack of dogs, but we're not unworldly. If you ever need us to... quiet ourselves, we will." 

"I — *no*," Aramis says, and glares. 

"Son —" 

"I am not *weak*!" 

Treville makes a soothing gesture. "I am absolutely not saying you are. But it takes time to get used to having even one dog in your living space. There are *six* of us, and we're very large, and very loud, and you? Have always preferred cats." 

"I have never said this thing!" 

Treville looks at him.

Aramis — growls. 

Treville raises an eyebrow. 

"I — very *well*. I still do not wish *lies*. Of *any* kind. Even *omission*." And Aramis *looks* at Treville. 

Treville inhales — and nods. "Understood, son. I'll pass the word along. Now, I think it's time for you to have some breakfast —" 

"Wait." 

"Mm?" 

"Where is *Porthos's* black?" 

Treville smiles sharply. "At the hostler's near the de la Fères' home, son." 

"What — he — he *left*?" To see his *lover* —

"He wanted Athos's advice this morning." 

"About — but that is private." 

"About you. He's been asking all of us about you." 

"Why is he not asking *me*!" 

Treville grins. "Because he can't take a deep breath around you without losing *most* of his mind, son. He'd like to be better than that for you." 

"I —" Aramis growls again — 

*Again* — 

Balls his hands into *fists* — 

And Treville rests one gentle hand on Aramis's shoulder and guides him back toward the house. "Not to worry, son. I strongly suspect I know what Athos is going to tell him about you — and it's a rare day when those two don't take each other's heartfelt advice." 

And there is... a feeling. 

A strange, hot, strangling — 

And, for a horrifying and horrifyingly *long* moment, Aramis realizes that he's *jealous* — 

And that Treville can *smell* it — 

And that he's being *polite* — 

Aramis *snarls* — 

"I could *tell* you what Athos is going to tell Porthos —" 

"Tell me!" 

"To be honest with you. To stop treating you with kid gloves. To *be* your mate." 

And Aramis's heart *slams* in his chest once — 

Twice — 

"Oh. I. He will... he would... even though Porthos is his lover?" 

"Porthos is his brother, son. Now and forever." 

Aramis has no idea whatsoever what they eat for breakfast. 

Amina doesn't pull him aside, after. 

Treville takes him back to the stables and helps him unnecessarily with Gabrielle, seeing him off. 

Aramis is grateful. 

Aramis is — 

Is — 

There is still much that he doesn't understand.


	5. Let's lay down some ground rules.

In the end, Porthos can't stay away, even though he has leave for the day. 

He can't — 

There's *been* a pull on his soul ever since he first *saw* Aramis, but it gets stronger by the *moment*, and it feels like that conversation with Athos ripped huge *baffles* off the thing. 

It's a high, hungry whine in his head. 

It's musk in his nose he can't *quite* taste. 

It's the boy himself, stiffening when he feels himself being watched. 

Or maybe when he feels his own pull. 

Can Porthos hope for that? 

Would it be too wrong?

He steps out of the shadows and joins Aramis where he's working on his footwork — it's good practice *and* good conditioning. 

His hair is lank with sweat. He's been working hard all morning. 

He smells like — 

He smells bloody perfect. 

And Porthos needs to focus. Just — 

"Are you going to train me now?" 

"I am." 

"Are you going to run from me if you grow too hot?" 

"No." 

"What *will* you do if you grow too hot?" 

"Tell you about it," Porthos says. "And *ask* you if I can have some time for myself so I can take care of it... before coming back." 

Aramis swallows.

Stares up at him so — 

So *openly* — 

He's *intimidated* — 

But he's also... hungry. 

Porthos doesn't growl. He has to set the pace here. "Please tell me how you feel about that." 

Aramis blinks — "I — it is well!" 

"Yeah? Are you *sure* —" 

"A part of me..." 

"Mm?" 

And Aramis narrows his eyes at him. His scents become prickly, *annoyed* — 

"What is it, Aramis? What can I do?" 

"You — you left me alone for three *days*!" 

"I —" 

"You left me — I *told* you I did not wish to be alone with your giant family!" 

Porthos winces — and nods. "You're right. You absolutely did. I'm sorry about that —" 

"Do you have anything to *excuse* yourself?" 

"There is *never* an excuse to deny the needs of your *mate*," Porthos says, and — that was a growl. He has to watch that. He has to. "I'm sorry. I'm —" 

Aramis is blinking again. He —

Porthos raises his hands — "Aramis, I —" 

"Do not apologize again! You are — you are..." He shivers. His scents are full of surprise and surprised interest, *pleasure*, *curiosity*. "This is... lore?" 

He's a scholar. *Everyone* in the family had said that, and Porthos will remember it. But — "More than that. Deeper." 

Aramis licks his lips. "Then... instinct?" 

Can he ask if Aramis has felt anything like — no. He has to. 

He has to *answer Aramis's questions*. 

So. He nods, and thinks about *how* to answer without — no. Just answer. Just answer. "When you've come to me in my rooms." 

"Yes?" 

"When I've gotten *hard* for you, Aramis." 

"I —" 

"You've gotten hard for me, too. Haven't you." 

"I — I don't — I don't wish to discuss —" 

"Easy. I'm not asking you *for* anything, Aramis. This is just a lesson, I promise," Porthos says, keeping his tones even and low and steady. 

Aramis narrows his eyes. "But you *are*... aroused." 

"I always am around you. At least some." 

"But not... very much?" 

"I tossed myself off before coming to you today, Aramis —" 

"Oh. I..." 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "A man's got to take precautions, from time to time." 

Aramis licks his soft-looking lips — and nods. "I... I have become hard. When you... when I have seen..." He shakes his head once, clearly making a decision. He looks up into Porthos's eyes with a *steely* expressing in his own. "You are a very attractive man." 

Porthos can't help but take that — 

Keep that — 

"You're the most beautiful —" He growls — stops. "I apologize —" 

"*No*. Do not keep *apologizing* to me, Porthos! I — I will *tell* you when you need to apologize to me." 

Porthos opens his mouth — 

"And I am certain of this!" 

Porthos *shuts* his mouth — and smiles. 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos inclines his head. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. No woman, no man, no boy, no girl, no sodding work of *art* — nothing has ever approached you." 

Aramis blinks at him. 

Porthos raises his own eyebrows and waits to be told to apologize. 

Aramis... flushes. Deeply. 

His scents deepen, too. 

He — 

"You liked that. You liked me telling you —" 

"You were *honest*." 

"I'll never tell you a lie." 

Aramis grunts — and then looks at him sharply. "Never?" 

"Never," Porthos says, and leaves himself open, *open* — and gets hit with a rising *wave* of hunger from Aramis. 

He — 

"Aramis..." 

"I — I..." 

And this close, there's no getting away from his hunger, his lust, his *need* — 

Porthos *knows* he wants to be touched, wants to be touched by *him*, his *mate* — 

He can *have* —

He knows he's *growling* — 

He knows he's *looming* — but. 

But. 

Aramis's pulse is rabbiting in his throat, some. 

There's *fear* mixed with all the delicious scents of his *need* —

And the fact that Porthos knows he can ease those fears with his *body*... is not enough. 

It's not time for this. 

It's not time for *this*. 

He steps back once, and again. 

Aramis gasps. "What — what —" 

"Would you mind if I left you for a little while, Aramis? I need to teach my cock a little military discipline," Porthos says, and smiles wryly. As wryly as he can while he can still smell... everything he can smell. 

Aramis stares at him. "You... you..." 

"Aramis?" 

"You were responding to *me*!" 

Oh... "Yeah. I was." 

"You — you felt my desire, my —" And Aramis blushes deeply, blushes almost *violently* — 

"It's all right —" 

"It is *not* —" 

"Easy," Porthos says, using a little of the command-voice. 

It pulls Aramis up short, just the way it should, and makes him stare up at Porthos in *confusion* — 

Porthos nods once. "It's all *right*. You're *going* to get hot for me, just like I'm going to get hot for you. And then we're going to get hot for each *other*." 

"But —" 

"*But*... nothing has to happen. Nothing," Porthos says, and looks into Aramis *hard*. 

Aramis growls. "*You* said there was no excuse for denying your mate's needs!" 

Shit — no. No. "There are needs... and then there are desires, Aramis. I daresay we'll both *know* when it's truly need." 

Aramis makes a small sound — 

And Porthos smiles ruefully. "Yeah. It's *going* to get more intense than that. For both of us." 

"How will we *train*?" 

Porthos rumbles. "I like a lad who wants to *work* —" 

"That is *good*, but —" 

"If we do complete the mating... there'll be relief," Porthos says, and just... leaves himself open again. 

Aramis pants. "That... that does match what your mother said..."

Porthos nods. 

Aramis frowns. "Porthos..."

"What's wrong, Aramis? Tell me." 

"I... I have not allowed myself to fantasize about you. When I have pleasured myself." 

Oh. Porthos swallows. "No?" 

"No. I did not want... I did not *want*. I do not like to be *led*!" 

Porthos grins. "Have I mentioned that you're supposed to be calling me 'sir' here?" 

"*I*!" 

Porthos laughs hard. "We'll leave that for now. You were saying?" 

Aramis growls. "I must go pleasure myself *now*. I will not be able to *stop* thinking of you. I..." 

"That upsets you." 

"Yes! I — I want... I want to be able to *choose* you." 

Oh, love... And Porthos grips one of Aramis's shoulders and pins him with a look — 

"Porthos —" 

"Choose your *battles*, Aramis. Choose your *war*." 

"I —" 

"*This* one has been taken from both of us — but there are others." 

Aramis blinks. "*You* are not upset, not — it doesn't *bother* you that this battle was taken from you!" 

"I was raised to have it taken from me, Aramis. I was raised by a mated pair, in a *pack*. To me, it's only natural to have these choices taken from me. I can't, truly, imagine how terrible this is for you — and I'm sorry for that. I want to understand everything about you. I want to know you like I know my own *guns*." 

Aramis *grunts*. 

"But... there'll be other battles, Aramis. I promise." 

"Perhaps... the battle to decide *how* I come to know you?" 

Not if? Porthos grins. "There's one. Take it for yourself. Take the high ground and make it your *own*." 

Aramis nods once. "As you say. Where... where should we *go* to ease ourselves?" 

And Porthos is *taken* by the image — the *dozens* of images — of tossing himself off *with* Aramis, of telling Aramis how to do it, of Aramis *staring* at how *he* does it, and coming closer, and — 

"Porthos?" 

Porthos stops *growling* — "We — are going to two very separate places. *You* are going to the east barracks — do you know where they are?"

"Yes, I — the other boys spoke of them being *haunted*, but this is obviously not so —" 

"Yeah, I just bet you can feel that. *I* am going to desecrate a couple of handkerchiefs in a powder shed." 

"In a — Porthos!" 

Porthos laughs. "I'll tell you *stories* of all the things I've gotten up to in powder sheds over the years, love," he says, and claps Aramis's shoulder twice before stepping back again. "I'll meet you back here when we're done." 

"I — yes, Porthos. Yes — sir." 

"There you are," Porthos says, and grins. 

And watches his mate walk away. 

Just watches. 

He doesn't follow, even though he can see all the ways that walk — that *grace* — is *affected* by his arousal. 

Even though he knows Aramis will be thinking about — but *what* will he be thinking about?

What does he *like*?

What does he *want*?

Porthos... is going to drive himself *mad* thinking about those questions. 

Starting right now.


	6. A trip to the cathouse, among other things.

Aramis had kept himself from asking more dangerous questions after... 

After. 

After stroking himself *brutally* hard, brutally *fast* to images and imagined sensations — 

Porthos's huge hands on his body — 

Porthos's huge hands moving all *over* his body, as greedy and starved as his *eyes* have been — 

Aramis hadn't even been able to stop himself from imagining Porthos touching his *scars* greedily — the thoughts had come too fast, too quickly, too — 

They had been too much of an imperative as he'd imagined being held down and caressed and stroked and *spread* — 

While Porthos told him every true thing he knew. 

He had spent before he could organize his thoughts into a true *fantasy*, and there had been a moment when he'd been *grateful* for this — 

And then he'd realized that spending once would not be enough, this time. 

That — 

He'd growled and taken his sensitized, sticky, still-*twitching* cock in his hand and squeezed *viciously*, arching and gritting his teeth —

*Punishing* himself — 

Punishing his — his *lusts* — 

But Porthos had been there in his mind. 

Porthos had been slipping his thick, long fingers between Aramis's — 

Whispering and rumbling in his ear —

Asking him if he really wanted to hurt himself — 

Wanting to *know* — 

Wanting to know so he could do it *himself* — 

And Aramis had gasped and *choked* on a cry in the dark, cool, dusty barracks —

Aramis had groaned and stroked himself fast fast *fast* — 

Porthos's hands are so rough — 

Aramis had *needed* them so *badly* —

He had turned his short fingernails on his balls and tried to pretend, tried to *imagine* — 

In his mind, Porthos had promised him everything, anything he needed, anything he wished, every — 

In his mind, Porthos had pushed two fingers back behind Aramis's *stinging* balls and rubbed and pressed and massaged and — 

And Aramis had spent himself *mindless* to the imagined growl of Porthos's voice saying only — 

'I'm yours.' 

After that — and after asking far, far, *far* too much of one of the fine handkerchiefs he has been given — he had been ready to train again. 

And ready to be careful. 

Especially since Porthos had inhaled so deeply when Aramis had come to him — 

Had flared his nostrils again and again and *again* — 

"I — I will not... we will *train*, sir," Aramis had said. 

"That we will," Porthos had said, in his low, rumbling — 

Aramis had shivered — 

"Right now." And Porthos's voice had been steady, heavy, full of *command*. "Show me your conditioning exercises. *All* of them." 

It hadn't even been terrible to be taken away from the fencing footwork. It had been a *relief* — 

And then, of course, it had been hard *work*. 

He has never been an idle boy — he had run all over Paris when he was living with his mother at Madame Margaud's!

And, of course, he had taken charge of exercising his *pathetic* father's beautiful horse Solomon once the man had *stolen* Aramis away from his mother — 

But he need not think of that. 

It is only this: He was not, truly, prepared for the *level* of work he is doing now. 

He knows — he *sees*! — that Porthos and the other lieutenants are not giving him as *much* work as the other cadets — the ones who have *been* here for long enough to know much of what they are *doing* — and this is *infuriating* — 

But. 

He must also be realistic. 

By the time that Porthos calls a halt, Aramis is *dripping* with sweat, panting, and almost *shaking* with fatigue. 

He *hurts*.

He — 

And he knows that Porthos knows it. 

*But* — 

"You can heal me! You can *make* me ready for more —" 

Porthos smiles ruefully and shakes his head. 

"Do not —" 

"Aramis," Porthos says, and he is using his — his *command* again — 

Aramis grunts, but — "Tell me *why* you are denying me, *sir*." 

"Because we have to allow your body to strengthen naturally. We have to find your natural *limits*." 

"I —" 

"Once we do? *Then* we can see about pushing them," Porthos says, and — promises with his eyes. 

This...

This is acceptable. 

Aramis nods once. "Yes, sir."

Porthos smiles at him. "C'mon. Let's cool you down at the shooting range."

Oh — 

There are so many beautiful *guns* here!

The ones the cadets practice with have little artistry to them, but they are all in perfect condition, oiled and clean and *ready* for him, for anyone — 

For anyone *allowed* such beautiful *liberty*!

Aramis smiles and moves to take one of the pistols — 

But Porthos stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He — 

"No?" 

Porthos smiles at him. He is holding *his* pistol in his other hand. He is — 

Oh.

Oh...

Aramis looks *up* — 

*Away* from the beautiful — 

Perfect — 

He looks *up* — 

And now Porthos is laughing softly. "There's nothing wrong with the other guns, Aramis," he says quietly. "I just want you using *my* things... for a little while." 

Aramis feels himself *thicken* —

Despite his *exhaustion* — 

Despite —

"But you *don't* have to —" 

Aramis *yanks* the pistol out of Porthos's hand before he can say another *word* — 

Porthos growls *appreciatively* — 

Aramis knows that it was *appreciative* — 

But he doesn't have to think about that. 

He can think about the gun, which is truly beautiful. He can... 

It must have been designed and built by a true *artist* — 

"Daddy commissioned my guns for me once I proved I could shoot straight. He *may* have been a mite unseemly about it," Porthos says, and there's a laugh in his quiet voice — and not a trace of command. 

"No!" 

"No...?" 

"A gun is a *perfect* weapon," Aramis says, and sets about loading the pistol steadily and respectfully. "It *deserves* to *look* as beautiful as it shoots."

"Mm. You love to shoot." 

"*Yes*, Porthos. It was the *only* good thing about living with my father." 

Another growl, and this one is not appreciative, at all. "Tell me about that...?" 

Aramis frowns and finishes loading — 

Porthos had *left* his pistol unloaded just so he could give it to Aramis today!

He is not frowning, anymore. He can — he can speak. "He considered himself a scholar," Aramis says, when he can, remembering his contempt — and the sting of his disappointment. 

There had been a part of him, even after the man had *stolen* Aramis from his mother, which had... 

"I wanted him to be better than he was. He was *not*," Aramis says, and aims, and shoots — bullseye. 

"Perfect —" 

"Thank you," Aramis says, and sets the pistol down to cool and reaches for Porthos's arquebusier — 

"Yeah? It's not too big for you?" 

Aramis *looks* at Porthos. 

"When did you have the *chance* to shoot an arquebusier?" 

"I did *not*. The man owned a *musket*, and I used that *very* often when I was not using his rust-damaged *pistol*." 

"Right you are, then," Porthos says, and hands his — beautiful, *magnificent* — arquebusier — to Aramis. "You could tell me more about — the man."

Aramis thinks about that. 

That open — 

His *instincts* are telling him that Porthos truly wishes to *know*. But...

How would he say the things in his heart to a man who is practically a stranger?

How would he say what he has wanted and *needed*?

How would he say that to *anyone*? "I... not... not now. Please." 

Porthos cups Aramis's shoulder and squeezes it. "Then let's think about other things," he says, in the *most* gentle of rumbling voices. 

Aramis nods and shivers — and gives himself permission to spend more time examining the arquebusier, since it's already loaded. 

There is a 'P' engraved among great, deep-chested hunting hounds... but. 

Aramis frowns. 

"What's wrong, mm?" 

"These dogs..." 

"Yeah?" 

"They do not look like *your* dog," Aramis says, very quietly indeed. 

Porthos laughs hard. "That they don't. Daddy was mortified — he'd modeled the sketches on his and Mum's dogs, who *do* look like that." 

"You... do not look like...?" 

"I don't, no," Porthos says, and raises a finger to his lips — and winks. "Mum had her fun before getting mated to Daddy, if you catch my meaning." 

Aramis blushes *deeply* — 

And Porthos laughs more. "They knew all along that I *wasn't* Daddy's *that* way... but they thought the blood-magery between them would, well... take care of things. It didn't. Quite."

"Why — why did your father not commission a *new* arquebusier?" 

"He tried to. *Immediately*." 

"You did not *let* him?" 

Porthos grins. "I *like* carrying my pack with me everywhere I go, Aramis. Makes me feel less alone." 

"Oh."

"Now *fire*," he says in the *command* voice — 

Aramis turns, aims — 

Shoots — 

He misses the bullseye. 

Not by *much*, but — 

He still has to growl at himself. 

"Right, well, you're going to be a long-gunner," Porthos says. 

"I —" 

"Get that pistol loaded."

"Yes, Porthos, but —" 

"You shouldn't have made that shot, Aramis, but you did —" 

"I did not!" 

"That close to the bullseye? You would've *dropped* any target you were aiming for. And, *most* often, that's *all* we need to do." 

"Oh." 

"Pain and blood-loss will do the rest." 

"Yes, this makes — how quickly?" And Aramis reloads the pistol quickly and neatly.

"Well, let's assume that shot was much worse than it was. You only got the bastard in, say, the shoulder." 

"Oh —" 

"But here's what happened when you did: One, you spun him so bad he at least *nearly* fell off his horse, making the horse rear —" 

"*Oh* —" 

"The other horses are professionals, but they're still going to spook a little for that, so you've got a *bit* of chaos in the enemy line —" 

"Oh, *yes* —" 

"His *mates* are all fucked-up — they can't help turning to look, to see if he's *alive* — *fire*." 

Aramis *obeys* — bullseye. 

"You are..." Porthos whistles. 

"Your pistols — every pistol here! — they are so much *better* than what I had to *work* with when I was hunting —" 

"Of course they are. That should've made you a *worse* shot." 

"I... no." 

Porthos laughs. "Trust me on this?" 

Aramis frowns while reloading the arquebusier, and says nothing. 

Porthos laughs harder. "Trust me that it tends to make everyone *else* in that situation a worse shot?" 

Aramis considers... and nods. 

"Thank you *very* much. Now where was I?" 

"The enemy soldiers checking on the fallen soldier —" 

"Right. So there's even more chaos, which *your* mates are exploiting. We'll teach you *every* way to do that. But meanwhile, even if the man you shot *is* still ahorse? He's bleeding like a bastard and has no way to get to help, because everyone and everything is milling and loud, and there's a vast, *growing* dust cloud obscuring everything but what's right in front of his face. 

"Additionally, he's in massive amounts of pain, he's terrified that he's going to lose his arm — *he* has no way to know you missed all the bad spots — he can't control his horse worth a damn, and he can't *fight*. So?" 

"He is a liability in every way!" 

"Exactly. What are you waiting for?" 

"I — oh!" And Aramis aims and fires *quickly* — *damn* — 

"Oh, that one's a little bit... did I actually surprise you?" 

"Yes," Aramis says, and scowls *blackly* at himself. 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "I already know *that* will never work again, so I'm going to keep trying other things. You have to be ready for anything." 

"Yes, Porthos." 

"Don't get down on yourself, Aramis. You still hit the target — which means you still *stopped your man*." 

"I... made another liability?" 

"That you did. Now let's keep going."

They continue shooting for another hour, with Porthos teaching him much *about* technique and how those techniques will help on the battlefield. 

And then... another man joins them. 

He is tall, though not so tall as Porthos, and somewhere between lean and rangy. 

His hair is brown, and he trims his beard and moustache neatly around his scarred mouth. They are quite spare, and the man is worryingly attractive. 

His diction is far more proper and correct than Porthos's, and Porthos doesn't object or seem at all annoyed when the man interjects to add information to his teaching. 

He — 

Aramis swallows and sets the arquebusier down after his bullseye. "You are Athos? Sir." 

The man smiles at him warmly — and bows with a flourish. "At your service." He then offers his arm to clasp. "I truly am pleased to make your acquaintance, Aramis." 

Aramis returns the gesture, squeezing firmly, steps back, bows, and then — "Why?" 

Athos raises an eyebrow. "You are my brother's mate. That alone would've made me incalculably eager to meet you, Aramis. However, *everyone* who has spent any time with you in conversation since you have been on this sphere has spoken highly of you to me. Those people happen to *all* be people I hold in high esteem, and whose opinions I hold in the utmost *respect*. You are, by all accounts, an entirely remarkable young man." 

Aramis cocks his head to the side. "And you do not wish to make your own judgment about this?" 

Athos laughs. "I absolutely do. Which is why I'm about to pry Porthos from your side so that I may bring you home with *me* for dinner." 

"*Brother* —" 

Athos smiles sharply. "I did intend to give him back..."

Porthos growls — but. 

Aramis clears his throat. "This is *my* choice?" 

Porthos blinks and *stops* growling. "Of course —" 

"Then I would like to see how the de la Fère family lives," Aramis says, and ignores the way his heart is pounding — 

Ignores the way he is *sweating* again — 

Ignores — 

But Porthos is frowning again — 

And Athos is studying him closely. 

"Aramis..." 

He must be honest. "I am, of course, intimidated," Aramis says, and lets himself sound haughty. "But I must know your brother, Porthos."

Porthos flares his nostrils — 

His eyes are suddenly *wild* — 

"Yeah. Yeah, you must," he says, and cups Aramis's shoulders with both hands. "Everything is going to be fine. You'll probably be *more* comfortable over there than you are at our house." 

"I... yes?" 

Porthos smiles wryly. "Thomas has two really cute cats."

"Oh —" 

"Your mate prefers *cats*?"

"Don't start, brother." 

"Mm. Despite current appearances and aromas," Athos says, "Porthos does, in fact, bathe." 

Aramis coughs — 

"Regularly, even —" 

"I'm going to duck *you* in a bloody *horse* trough —" 

"You know Mother hates it when we drip on her rugs, brother. You don't want Aramis to make a bad *impression* —" 

Porthos *blanches* — 

It is a *fascinating* — and rather horrifying — thing to see on a man of his complexion — 

And Athos laughs meanly for a long moment before turning to Aramis. "Please don't worry about that, Aramis. Porthos is simply being utterly ridiculous about you because he's already fallen in *love* with you." 

"I!" 

And Porthos is blushing so *hotly* — 

"I assure you," Athos says *smoothly*, "you've already made an *excellent* impression on my *entire* family. Including the cats." 

"I — because I've made a good impression on *Porthos's* family?" 

"Just so. We may not be dogs, but we know when to trust the dogs of our lengthy acquaintance. Shall we?" 

"Wait, you're leaving *now*?" 

Athos looks *pointedly* at the horizon, which is burnished with the coming sunset — 

"Aw — fuck. Bring him back *soon*," Porthos says, and gives Aramis a *hungry* look — 

A *burning* look — 

And then he deliberately steps away from Aramis and Athos.

Athos studies Porthos for a moment — and nods before turning to *him* with a smile. "Let's go make ourselves somewhat respectable." 

As they get ready, Athos asks him quiet, thoughtful, but not *especially* personal questions about how he's settling in, taking in every piece of information as if it's all equally vital to the portrait of Aramis he is painting. 

Aramis keeps his own questions to himself, since they are surrounded by the other men and boys. 

Still, it does not take *long* to ready themselves, and soon they are on horseback and riding out of the garrison. 

There is no sign of Porthos — no. 

No. 

Aramis can — 

"You can feel him watching us," Athos says quietly, with a small, sharp smile on his face. "Can't you." 

"I — you knew he would?" 

"Of course," he says easily. "And I also know that, from this moment forward, you will have a *vast* amount of difficulty separating yourself from him. He will never hide himself from you again." 

Aramis blinks — 

Forgets to try to guide Gabrielle around the fountain with just his thighs — 

Forgets nearly *everything* — no. No. Not that. "You have manipulated him." 

"As he manipulates me, when I need him to do so." 

"You believe that he needed to be... pushed in my direction?" 

"It was his intention to protect you from his baser urges by keeping himself as far away from you as possible for as long as possible —" 

"I know this thing!"

"And we both know that the situation was utterly untenable. He *taught* me about mating when we were boys. I knew you were both in great need of each other's presence, at the very least," Athos says, and leads them through the Paris streets. 

Aramis — 

Aramis cannot keep himself from blushing. 

"You know much." 

"It bothers you." 

"Would it not bother you?" 

"Of course it would — if I knew equivalently little about the world I was moving into, and the people I was sharing it with," Athos says, and smiles ruefully. "I hope to do something about that tonight." 

Which means that *Aramis* needs to — 

To — 

"Who are you." 

"An excellent question," Athos says, and smiles at him again. "If I ever do *not* answer a question of yours to your satisfaction, you absolutely must tell me so, so that I may endeavor to correct myself —" 

"I..." 

"Are you wondering why I am making that offer?" 

"Yes," Aramis says, and *looks* at Athos.

Athos hums. "You're thinking about the fact that Porthos and I have been lovers for over half our lives." 

Aramis *flushes* — but. "Yes." 

"You're thinking... well. We have never... kept ourselves *to* ourselves, Aramis. And I always knew that he would, probably, have a mate *someday*." 

"Are you saying you prepared yourself for this thing?" 

"Yes," Athos says, quietly and firmly. 

But *how* — no, no. He will ask more *questions*, and — "You prepared yourself for the possibility that he would *leave* you." 

"Hmm. Not quite that." 

"No?"

"We are brothers, Aramis," Athos says, and scans their perimeter with an obviously skilled eye. "I have never been able to fathom the loss of him *as* my brother." 

"Even with all you've known about mating? Even with the possibility of Porthos gaining a mate who would wish to take him from you?" 

And Athos's smile for *that*... is almost *nostalgic*. 

"What?"

"We dreamed of you, Aramis." 

"What — you — *when* —" 

"When we were boys — and after," Athos says, and leads them through a late market. "We dreamed of Porthos's mate walking into the garrison one day, looking to enlist, and then meeting Porthos's eyes... well." 

"Oh." 

Athos grins at him. "We dreamed of a mate for Porthos who would be *our* brother, Aramis. Who would be strong and bold and wise and brilliant. Who would be skilled — and help *us* grow more skilled — and who would, eventually, ride with us."

Aramis is flushing *again* —

He must —

He is learning too *slowly*, he is *moving* too slowly —

"Hm. That didn't work the way I wished it — ah. You're worried about your progress."

*Shit* — no. No. "*Why* do you wish another brother for yourself?" 

Athos raises an eyebrow at him — and then nods, and turns to check their perimeter once more, gaze lingering on a group of drunks moving toward an alley — 

But they are only going to relieve themselves. 

"You may have guessed — Porthos and I lead somewhat separate lives from the other men in the regiment." 

This makes sense. Athos holds Porthos's secrets — but. "Even though Porthos's... nature is, in truth, an open secret?" 

"Even so. We cannot speak about such things, Aramis. We cannot ever be wholly *relaxed* about such things. The men know, and keep it to themselves, but were *they* to become relaxed about it —" 

"They would speak out of turn," Aramis says, and nods slowly. 

"Not, I daresay, all of them — many of them have the makings of excellent intelligence agents, and the Captain uses them that way. But... we cannot take that risk. There is too much at stake. For *all* of us." 

"Yes, I see!" 

Athos nods once. "We've both wanted more than we've had, Aramis." 

"Why? Why are you not enough for each other?" 

Athos smiles at him wryly. "Perhaps we are merely *greedy*." 

"Do not tease!" 

"Very well. Say this, instead: When a *good* Captain of the King's Musketeers is making his dispositions, he tries to build units of three to five men. This is not only because that is the size of a generally successful unit for many of our missions, or because that is the size of a successful sub-unit for larger actions. This is because a group of three to five men who are, presumably, well-suited to each other in temperament and outlook, can keep each other from the worst of their excesses and raise each other to the very pinnacle of their individual performances through natural camaraderie and friendly competition. 

"Larger or smaller units do *not* do as well with such things —" 

"Are you saying that you and Porthos have failed each other?" 

Athos hums. "No, I am not. *But*... we had advantages other pairs would not have had. Both of our fathers were Musketeers, and our Uncles are *still* Musketeers. They *all* gave us much-needed guidance." 

Aramis nods slowly. "Your desire for another brother was a *practical* one." 

"To a certain extent," Athos says, and leads them into the quarter where the gentry make their residences. "I am a practical man far more often than I am not — and I promise that I have not forgotten your original question —" 

"Good!" 

Athos grins. "I've also desired another brother because I've *desired another brother*. Someone to turn to when Porthos has said something perfectly hilarious so that I could *share* my amusement. Someone I could *conspire* with when I wanted to play a jape on Porthos. Someone *Porthos* and I could learn everything about, over time, and with care. Someone we could *play* with, and *fight* with, and *live* with, and *love* with —" 

"You — you are speaking of *pack*!" 

"Am I...? Hm. I don't think so. I don't work quite that way." 

"You —" 

"At least... I don't think I do," Athos says, and smiles at him. "If I do, Porthos is my pack, and my family is my *family*. And I'm not sure it *is* supposed to work that way." And Athos raises an eyebrow at him in question. 

Aramis blinks. "I... don't know." 

"Perhaps we'll learn together. With regards to the question of who I am —" 

"I..." He is a greedy man, and a practical man, and a *ruthless* — no. He will let *Athos* tell Aramis who he is in his *own* words. You can learn much about a person in this way. "No, go on, please." 

"Are you certain?" 

"Yes." 

"Very well. I'm an intelligent man, but I can often be blinded to that which is... visceral. And right in front of my face —" 

"How so?" 

"Take, for an example, the nature of physical desire. I am capable of it — obviously — and I quite enjoy lovemaking, but, even at this late date, I will miss the signs of physical attraction in myself for another person... unless and until someone else points them *out* to me, or forces me to sexualize the person in question some other way. Additionally, I will feel *no* sexual attraction to a person until I've come to know them." 

"I..." 

"Yes?" 

"How do you miss your hard *cock*?" 

"My cock doesn't harden... right away." 

"Then you —" 

"But I do become attracted eventually. Intellectually, emotionally, and, yes, physically. I *want* to touch the other person, but putting those touches into a sexual context..." Athos shrugs with only the muscles of his face. And Aramis... 

"How does this *work*. How did it work with *Porthos*?" 

"Well, of course I already loved him deeply, and we had grown up together, so we spent a great deal of *time* together —" 

"Yes, yes, more!" 

Athos hums again. "At no point during my — frequent — adolescent masturbatory sessions did it occur to me that Porthos's frequent presence in my mind *during* those sessions might have *meaning*." 

Aramis frowns. 

Aramis *scowls*. 

Aramis — 

"That answer wasn't good enough." 

"It was *not*." 

"It wasn't good enough for Porthos, either, when we discussed it... the many times I tried to explain it to him. Hm." Athos frowns thoughtfully. 

Aramis scowls *blackly* — "How — were you not imagining what he could do with you? *To* you?" 

"I was mostly thinking about wrestling. And, of course, his smile." 

Aramis stares at Athos. 

Athos smiles wryly. "And it wasn't that I had... well. My parents *had* explained sexuality to me. In great detail, in fact." 

"Then —" 

"I simply did not connect one thing to the other." 

"*Why*?" 

"I believe I was focused on other things. My training, as an example. I was hoping that Porthos and I could earn our commissions as early as humanly possible." 

Oh, but — "This is *worthy*, but the body's needs are the body's *needs*. And if you truly *loved* Porthos, you *would* have felt — and understood — *something*." 

Athos smiles ruefully at him. "If it makes a difference, Aramis... my father was — and is — much the same." 

"I... what?" 

"He felt no attraction to *anyone* — nothing he could mark and comprehend as such — until he came to know — and love — Porthos's father and the Captain... when he was in his *twenties*. He met — and fell for — Lieutenant Reynard and Porthos's mother years after that, and —" 

"Athos..." Aramis is blinking. 

"Yes?" 

Aramis blinks *more* — but. "Your father's marriage was arranged." 

"Of course." 

Aramis raises a pointed eyebrow. 

Athos grins. "Mother refused *all* suitors once *she* came to know Father at a perfectly random party —" 

"Did she *browbeat* your father into taking her?" 

Athos *laughs* — and grins *at* him. "No. Father was enchanted once Mother had convinced her parents to contact *Father's* parents about a potential match. Mother is *never* blind to herself, and she is witty, charming, wise, *sharp*, brilliant, well-read... well. You will meet her and judge for yourself. As Father told me, *his* parents had originally tried to compensate for his various eccentricities and tendency toward intellectual fancy by trying to match him with gentle, soft, but not especially... hm..." 

"Intelligent?" 

"Well, *he* is always more diplomatic about the matter, but yes. Father gravitates toward brilliance, wisdom, intellectual curiosity, open-mindedness... that sort of thing. He had quietly decided not to marry, at all, before he finally met Mother." 

"She proved herself worthy of him." 

"Of course." 

"*As* worthy as his — brothers?" 

Another smile. "Of course. Do you know the makeup of the elder generation's... relationships?"

"Your parents. Porthos's parents. The Captain. Lieutenant Reynard. Jason Blood." 

"Just so —" 

"I would think there would be more *women*." 

Athos laughs softly. "None of them traveled in circles which would make *meeting* more women who would be suitable for the pack... easy. None of us in the younger generations do, either, of course, but we have the benefit of our mothers having given birth to —" 

"They found Porthos's mother in a *teahouse*!" 

"Where they should have gone — where Porthos's parents especially should have gone, once they were augmented — were places witches could be found," Athos says quietly.

"Oh." 

"You know whereof I speak." 

"It would have allowed for more strength for the pack in general *and* more women specifically." 

"Almost certainly —" 

"It would have allowed for a larger, more *diverse* pack, with more children."

"Oh, yes," Athos says, and smiles at him again. "This, of course, would have granted the chance —" 

"For more brothers for *you*." 

"Mm. Already you know me well," Athos says, and gives him an *admiring* look before turning to scan their perimeter once more. 

Aramis flushes and flushes — "Tell me more!" 

"I'm *exceedingly* violent." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes. Porthos tends toward the quick kill, always. Even when one of our enemies has earned a great *deal* of punishment, Porthos will still generally choose hurting them in a way which will lead to a *fast* death." 

"Whereas you prefer slow torture?" 

"For some." 

"For *whom*." 

"Rapists, child-torturers, slavers *whenever* possible, traitors... some few others." And Athos narrows his eyes hotly. "Your priests would've lived a great deal longer had Jason chosen to give the mission to rescue you to *me*." 

Oh... but — "They were *not* mine!" 

"As you say. But...?"

Aramis licks his lips. "It was clear that I would not have been able to... stay awake for much longer..." 

"Mm. *That* is true. The healing is strenuous, no matter how strong and healthy one generally is. I suppose I would have had to restrain myself to at least a certain extent," Athos says, and sighs.

"This... this truly upsets you." 

"Yes. Clerics are no more worthy of being trusted with the young on this sphere, Aramis. The difference is, *we* cannot do anything about it on a day-to-day basis." 

That... "You bring the King's Justice and the King's Peace *everywhere* you can." 

Athos shows his teeth. "And quite a few of the places we can't, at least sometimes. We train our men to do the same."

Aramis swallows. "I want that... very badly." 

"You'll have it." 

"You do not know —" 

"I've spoken with my Uncles about you, Aramis. All cadets are observed closely, but the newest ones are watched near-constantly." 

"I... see," Aramis says, and flushes *again*." 

"You have nothing to be concerned about," Athos says, and nods to the stableboys who open the doors to the hostler's for them. "Your work ethic, your shooting, your horsemanship, your grace, your *speed*... you are *going* to be one of our best men, if we can keep you from rushing yourself to a crippling injury —" 

"I am not *reckless*! And — you are *very* manipulative —" 

"I am, indeed," Athos says, and smiles at him. "We're going to be training you every spare moment we can get, Aramis. And we know that you'll be bettering *yourself* when *we* can't help. You'll have what you want." 

Aramis — doesn't let himself hold to that. 

He won't. 

He *won't*. 

"Hm. I believe I know that look, as well," Athos says, and smiles wider. "I like you immensely." 

"*I* —" But. It's time to dismount. 

They do, and Athos allows Aramis to give the stableboys instructions for Gabrielle, himself. 

Once they're on the street — "The de la Fères do not maintain their own stables in Paris?" 

"Sadly, no," Athos says. "Other than myself, only Father has any real experience — or takes any pleasure from — riding in cities. Though I have hope for Selene once she's older." 

"She is, perhaps, more like Odile?" 

"Hmm... no." And Athos laughs hard. "She is rather more of a stiletto than a pistol *or* a rapier. She tends to ask rather pointed questions about pointed failures of diplomacy." 

Pointed... and Aramis blinks. "She wishes —" He lowers his voice. "She wishes to be an assassin as an adult?" 

"She already knows a *significant* amount about poisons. I... well. I wouldn't want to anger her at a meal." 

That — "I like her." 

"I rather do, as well, but...?" 

"It is important to know what you wish out of life!" 

"Violently...?" 

Well... "Yes." 

Athos hums. "I agree wholeheartedly. I have any number of blood-soaked fantasies of her and Odile quietly — or not so quietly — improving the status of the Crown in Europe." 

"It sounds as though their skills would complement each other!" 

"Doesn't it?" Athos sighs almost dreamily. "Don't be fooled by Odile's diminutive stature. Shifters are always faster, more powerful, more *vital*, than other men and women —" 

"*Oh* —" 

"She can quite hold her own against the vast majority of opponents *already*." 

"Against you?" 

"I can use her impatience against her. Additionally, training with Porthos since we were boys has taught me much about working against stronger, faster opponents. There are always distractions one can use —" 

"Like what!" 

"The best thing to use against a younger, less-experienced shifter is their own senses —" 

"Oh — oh, yes. They are *sensitive*, and thus can be bested by their own focus!" 

"Perfect," Athos says, and smiles at him. "I wear strong scents when I'm sparring with Odile. She has, as of yet, not managed to overcome her own aversions to them." 

"I..." 

"Yes?" 

"No one in the de Tréville household wears *perfume*. I should have noticed this thing," Aramis says, and frowns. 

Athos cocks his head at Aramis and stops him on the relatively empty street outside of a large, perfectly-maintained house. 

"What? What is it?" 

"Will you lie awake to berate yourself about today's — and, presumably, the past three days' — failings? Will you run over and over them in your mind, grinding your face into them like an abusive Master of Hounds with a piss-puddle?" 

"*Athos* —" 

"Will you?" 

"I —" And Aramis shakes his head once and draws himself up. "It is *important* to know what you have done wrong so that you do not *repeat* your errors." 

"It is far better to repeat an error than it is to become obsessive and fixated on those errors to the detriment of one's *advancement*," Athos says... in the voice of *command*. 

Aramis blinks — and narrows his eyes. "Do you mean to change the way I *think*, *sir*." 

"Yes. Because the way you think will hinder your progress into the best Musketeer we can build, Aramis, and that is *unacceptable*."

"I —" 

"Do you *disagree* with that." 

"No! But —" 

"Do you believe you have more experience with *building* Musketeers than I do." 

"No — but I have more experience with *myself*," Aramis says, and *pants* — 

And Athos smiles darkly. "We are not so different, brother —" 

"I have not —" 

"And *I* have held myself *back* by thinking in the ways you do," Athos says, and raises an eyebrow.

Aramis does not *flinch*, but — "You... held Porthos back, too." 

"I was the only partner he could have, and he was forced to wait for me." 

Aramis winces — and nods. The lesson is clear. "Yes, Athos." 

Athos studies him for a moment — and then nods, himself, before gesturing him up the stairs. 

The door opens immediately, and a servant with a warm and quiet smile greets them. 

Athos greets him by name — Blanchard — asks about his daughter's health — apparently, she has a summer ague which has *not* needed the attention of the healers of their acquaintance — and introduces Aramis. Blanchard avows that he knew that Aramis was Porthos's 'young man', and smiles at Aramis in much the way the servants in the de Tréville household do. But... 

It's quieter on his face. Less... *insanely* excited for Aramis to mate with a man twice his age. 

Hm. 

This bears thought. 

Once properly inside, Athos leads them into a room which *must* be the family armoury — 

It is *impossible* not to walk around and examine all the weapons — 

Though. Hm. 

He strokes the air near an almost *determinedly* utilitarian rapier. "Was this your father's?" 

Athos laughs softly. "Yes. His brothers *all* tried to get him to carry something with more artistry to it, but... Father prefers his tools to be *clean* and *neat*." 

"And... severe?" Is he a severe man? 

"Less severe than *practical*, Aramis," Athos says, and continues disarming himself. Unlike Porthos — and Treville, and *Amina*, and *Odile* — he removes *all* of his weapons. "He pointed out more than once that *my* weapons would be more difficult to keep properly clean, that I would spend time cleaning them that I could be spending doing other things — like training..." 

"I... hm." 

Athos laughs meanly. "Yes, it *was* tempting." 

"But not *that* tempting?" 

Athos hands Aramis his pistol!

Aramis takes it carefully, respectfully, *firmly* — 

There is an 'A', in the same script as Porthos's 'P', and it's surrounded by Greek columns. There are also thickly-leaved *vines*. 

"It is *beautiful*, Athos." 

"I'll tell Thomas you said so — or you can tell him yourself. He designed it for me," Athos says, and smiles. "I liked it so much I chose the very same for my arquebusier, which disappointed Thomas terribly." 

"Thomas has a very artistic nature?" 

"Thomas is a polymath. There is little he puts his mind to that he doesn't *excel* at." 

"He did not wish to put his mind to becoming a soldier?" 

"Not in the slightest. Our natures were rather clear to our parents while we were still in short pants... and Thomas was reading everything he could get his hands on, and performing various excerpts from *what* he had read, and *I* was chasing after Father and my Uncles demanding to be trained." Athos cocks his head to the side. "Did you know what you wanted when you were a child?" 

"Yes. *Everything*." 

Athos *grins* at him. "Excellent answer. I —" 

Aramis holds up a hand. The *feeling* of the world outside the armoury has changed. The — 

He has grown more accustomed to thinking of it as magic. As *his* magic, which is there *for* him, now, most of the times when he reaches for it. 

He had not reached for it *this* time, but — he hadn't had to. 

He can *feel* another person just *there*, far enough outside the door to make no noise with their breathing, but close enough to hear everything *they* say. 

There is no danger — the magic is insistent about this — but there *is* someone listening.

Aramis turns back to Athos with his eyebrow up. 

Athos nods, smiles with his eyes closed, and then calls — "Selene." 

The girl — she can be no older than twelve — growls quietly and walks in with the smooth, easy grace of a much older woman. 

A much older woman who is pretending not to be *incensed*. She has pale skin; a small bow of a mouth; long, dark hair worn loose in the manner of children, and everything about her is admirably immaculate.

Aramis does not let himself price her —

"How did you *know*, brother? I was *silent*." 

"You were, indeed — I see that you've altered your slippers accordingly —" 

"*Yes*." 

"— but..." And Athos spreads his hands. And nods to Aramis. 

"*Oh*." Selene offers her hand to him and inclines her head once Aramis takes it. "I'm terribly sorry for my rudeness. I am Selene. I already know you're Aramis. I hope you will find great comfort and happiness here," she says, almost *sharply*, and looks at him expectantly. 

Aramis blinks — "Ah... I thank you, Selene. And... hm. You are perhaps hoping to know how *I* came to know you were listening outside the room?" 

"*Yes*! I mean... yes. Please." 

Athos laughs almost *raucously* and pulls Selene close — 

"*Athos* —" 

He kisses her temples and her mouth — 

"Athos, don't *muss* me!" 

And then he sets her away from himself and arranges her hair and clothes perfectly — 

"And you're not distracting me from what I want to know —" 

"*But*, Selene, he does *not* need to tell you," Athos says, raising an eyebrow and using the voice of command. 

Selene narrows her eyes. Slightly. 

Athos lowers his chin. 

And — this is his choice. *His*. Aramis clears his throat — 

Athos and Selene turn to face him. 

And Aramis smiles at Selene. "I am a witch." 

Selene blinks once — "Did you smell me?" 

"No, Selene, I *felt* you. I am a spirit-mage, not an earth-mage —" 

"Have you studied your art deeply?" 

Aramis thinks of Jason Blood — 

Aramis thinks of Josette, the hedge-witch in his father's village, who had tried so hard to teach him what she *could* —

Aramis thinks of — that so-called *school* — no. No. He smiles ruefully. "I have not, Selene. I plan to change that." 

"Yes? Will you study witchcraft *with* your more traditionally martial duties, the way Porthos has?" 

"Yes —"

"Will you —" 

Athos clears his throat. 

Selene narrows her eyes again. 

Athos laughs softly — and kisses the top of her head. 

"Athos —" 

"It's time," he says, "for dinner." 

"Oh." 

He hums. "Please feel free to continue interrogating our guest on the way."

She blushes *deeply* — and looks up at Aramis through her lashes. 

And that — 

Aramis reaches for her hand again, and, when she gives it to him, he bows over it, flourishes, and — "I assure you, Selene, your questions do not offend." 

"Then you'll answer *more*," she says, and takes his *arm* — 

"I —" 

She leads them out of the armoury and down the halls. "What is it *like* being mated to Porthos? Have you made love? Father says you were imprisoned in a Church school on your sphere —" 

Athos clears *his* throat — 

Selene ignores him. "Are you pious?" 

Aramis seizes on a question he feels qualified to answer — "I consider myself to be pious, yes —"

Athos makes a small, surprised noise — 

Aramis realizes that he hasn't had the opportunity to *speak* about his religion with anyone — 

Anyone, at all — 

"You said that *very* strangely, Aramis," Selene says. "Do you believe *other* people would *not* consider you to be pious?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "I know they would not," he says, and considers — 

And considers — 

"I am a heretic." 

"Oh. Now I'm going to have to study *religion*," Selene says, bad-naturedly. "I have to know what you're talking about!" 

Athos laughs quietly. "You were going to have to study it eventually anyway, Selene." 

She scowls — 

Stops that *immediately* — 

And then gives Aramis a very serious and *intent* look as they walk into an elegant dining room. "I promise that I will listen very attentively to anything *you* have to say about religion, Aramis." 

"Oh, yes?" Aramis smiles gently. "Why is this?"

"Because you're intelligent, kind, interesting, and you *don't try to keep important information from me*." 

Athos coughs — "It — it truly was —" 

"I'm not speaking to you, Athos." 

Aramis pats her hand. "Yes, Selene. Deny him your wit and wisdom and effervescence. He will learn." 

"Yes, this is what Maman has said." 

"*What* have I said, darling?" The woman speaking — and she must be Marie-Angelique, as she is older, regal of bearing, and very clearly the mother of Athos and Selene, as well as of the tall, lean young man seated at her left who must be Thomas — is smiling warmly at all of them. 

She has long, blonde curls liberally shot through with grey, her eyes are the same blue as Selene's, and she is quite, quite curvaceous. 

Plump, and — 

He does not price her. 

He does *not*. 

"Aramis was agreeing with you about the importance of disciplining the men in our lives, Maman," Selene says, and leads Aramis to Marie-Angelique's right. 

"Oh, *very* good," Marie-Angelique says, and smiles almost acquisitively at Aramis as he pulls out the chair for Selene —

She offers her soft hand — 

Aramis takes it and bows overs it, kissing the air above it. "Madame, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." 

"So formal. I *know* that isn't what my sweet sister has been teaching you..." 

Amina — but. Aramis looks up with a smile. "I believe in showing respect, Madame." 

Marie-Angelique hums and takes her hand back. "I will *always* take your respect, Aramis, but I hope to come to know you well enough that we can be friends — and family."

Aramis opens his mouth to ask *why* — but, before he can, Thomas stands and offers his hand. 

"Please," he says, with a warm, bright smile. "The same is true for me."

Aramis clasps his forearm and squeezes it — 

And Thomas gives him a quirked look. 

Oh — 

*Not* a soldier — 

"I apologize —" 

"Not at all," Thomas says, and smoothly returns the gesture. "I grew up in *this* extended family, after all." And this smile is sharper. "The courtier must learn to move in *all* circles, must he not...?" 

Aramis blinks — and studies Thomas for a moment. His blond hair is darker and shorter than Marie-Angelique's, though not by much for the latter. His curls are looser, and his jaw more square. He wears his beard and moustache precisely the way Athos does, and his eyes are a deep blue Aramis has not yet seen in this family. 

He is attractive, for his type, and eyes are full of *interest*. *Knowledge*. *Curiosity*. 

And... some degree of wickedness, as he smiles again. "Aramis...? What do you see in me?" 

Oh — but these people have given him nothing but honesty. 

*All* of these people have. 

He must offer the same. "You are your mother's son. Perhaps more than Athos and Selene are her children...?" 

He inclines his head. "And...?" 

There is something...

He was waiting with his mother for dinner, but couldn't Selene have been waiting, too? 

Shouldn't she have been? 

Wouldn't it have been more — 

"You were deliberately held back from greeting me. For — I do not know why." 

Thomas smiles *brightly*, teeth white in his soft-looking mouth — 

Marie-Angelique makes a *pleased* sound — 

Athos takes the seat at the right of the empty seat at the head of the table — "Mother thought — I *believe*; I would never dream of trying to second-guess her — that you would feel more comfortable with Selene's interrogation techniques than with Thomas's." 

Aramis blinks — and turns to Marie-Angelique. 

She inclines her head. 

"Why is this, Madame?" 

"You are a young *cat* who has been dropped, headlong, into a house full of dogs after torture of some length in a 'school' which did its best to stifle everything about you. Additionally, you have been given a *mate* and a *vocation*. Additionally, my son chose to bring you to *another* house full of strangers —" 

"Madame, forgive the interruption... but." 

Marie-Angelique raises her eyebrow noncommittally. This is well enough. *But*. 

"I never wish to be treated... delicately. Not when complete and absolute honesty is an option."

Thomas sits down again, leans back in his chair, and crosses his legs. "Aunt Amina did tell us just this, Maman." 

"Mm. So she did," Marie-Angelique says, and smiles ruefully before turning to Aramis again. "Perhaps you can forgive a mother's desire to be indulgent with *two* young people she greatly respects...?" 

Aramis blinks — 

Remembers *Selene's* needs and *pleasure* — 

And nods. "Of course, Madame. I believe my own mother would have made the same choice." 

Marie-Angelique makes another pleased noise and gestures at the chair across from Athos. "Would you tell us more about her? We would, of course, understand if the pain of her loss is too recent and great."

Aramis takes his seat and smiles ruefully. "She was... she was everything to me, Madame. As I am certain you all know, she worked in a brothel...?" 

A chorus of *respectful* nods and murmurs —

Selene looks very much as if she wishes to know what work his mother *did* — but. 

She is allowing Marie-Angelique to quell her with a hand on her own. 

Aramis promises himself to spend more time with just her, and her questions. He knows precisely how it feels to *be* quelled when one wishes anything but. 

For now — 

"She raised me there, at Madame Margaud's. It is a house in the merchant's quarter, on my sphere, very successful, and very peaceful. Several of the women raised their children there — even though the Madame also *offered* children to the brothel's clients." 

Athos raises an eyebrow. "Was there... overlap?" 

Aramis knows what he is truly asking. He smiles sharply. "Oh, yes, friend Athos, but, despite my *fervent* requests, pleas, and *demands*, my mother would not allow *me* to begin selling myself." 

Marie-Angelique tilts her head to the side just so. "You wished to do so? Even having seen the business for yourself?" 

"Oh, yes, Madame! I was a curious boy, and... an excitable one. I wanted to take my excitement and turn it into *money*, and turn that money into books, further education... a kind of freedom. Does this make sense?" 

Another chorus of nods and soft murmurs. 

"So. My mother, who chose the name Claudette d'Herblay when she left her people in Spain..." And he pauses. 

Not long. 

"Would you mind terribly if we asked who her people were?" And Thomas leans forward just slightly, politely avid and honestly *interested*. 

And — 

So are the rest of them. 

And they had all accepted *Amina*, despite her being a woman of colour and a former slave — 

Thomas is betrothed to her *daughter* — 

This — 

Is another choice he can make. Aramis nods once. "My mother was Rom, Thomas. I consider myself to be the same, though my father was not." And he holds himself still, and steady, and as tall as he can — 

He remembers his mother's lessons about secrecy — 

His mother's lessons about the importance *and* the dangers of *pride* — 

He remembers everything, and he waits. 

Not long. They are all nodding respectfully, and waiting for him, and Marie-Angelique is leaning *in* — "Aramis. My husband couches the matter best, perhaps, when he says that the sign of a truly ignorant, worthless human is how tightly that human *holds* to their ignorance — and their ignorant, baseless prejudice." 

Aramis blinks — 

Looks to the empty chair — 

And they're all laughing quietly. 

"You will forgive my husband for his tardiness, please," Marie-Angelique says. "He is *often* held up at Court these days — Louis waxes and wanes between depending on *Treville* and being too intimidated by him to *use* him as he is meant to be used by a monarch — but he *will* be here in just a few minutes." 

He must have arrived while Aramis and Athos were with Selene — or. Something? "I — of course. Would you like to hear more about my mother?" 

"*Oh*, yes." 

Aramis nods. "She taught me. She *trained* me — for as many different environments as she *could*. She accepted the teaching of those clients who could and *would* teach *her*, and she shared that with *me*. *Always*. She spent her money to buy me books, and time with tutors — though she was very exacting about *which* tutors would be allowed to teach me."

"Of course," Marie-Angelique says. "But... did you wish she were more free with you?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "At the time? Yes. There was *information* in the world, and I *wanted* it. And, of course, I wanted to start selling myself and building a client-base of my own." 

"Mm. She was exacting about who was allowed your time in *all* ways." 

"*Yes*, Madame. She could be quite strict! Though she was, in every way, very loving, very caring. I never doubted that I was the most important person in her life, and I." And Aramis stops. 

Just stops. 

He is... 

He is feeling his mother's hands in his hair — 

So strong, so firm — 

He is hearing her sing to him — 

She is holding him *tight* — 

She is teaching him *her* language, and making it a secret only they two can share against an uncaring world. 

She is — 

He remembers her scents, her musk, her throaty laughter, her throaty *purrs* — 

Thomas rests a hand on his wrist. "Aramis...?" 

"I... miss her," Aramis says, and pulls on a smile for the de la Fères. "I miss her very badly. 

Athos inhales deeply and leans in. "Of course. Perhaps you could tell us about your studies." 

"I... what?" 

"What have you enjoyed the most about your studies, Aramis? Perhaps... there was something your mother taught you that you were able to continue studying independently?" 

And Aramis recognizes an out when he is offered one. 

They... 

None of these people desire his pain. 

None of them — 

"I would *vastly* enjoy learning about your studies," Thomas says, and hums. "You have no idea how much of a relief it is to *leave* the French court, sometimes." 

"Oh. Yes?" 

"Mm. Yes," he says, and sips his wine before setting the glass down. "I have nothing against the fashionable plays and romances, of course — I've found them entirely entertaining over the years. But when they are the *only* things one's conversational partners are capable of discussing in any depth..." 

"Or at all, darling...?" And Marie-Angelique is smiling at her son. 

"Or —" Thomas sighs. "I shouldn't complain about them. At least those people read *something*." 

Selene leans in. "Aramis is a *religious* scholar, Thomas." 

"I —" 

"Oh, yes? That's *wonderful*," Thomas says, and smiles — perfectly genuinely. "We didn't *have* one of those in the extended family, yet." 

"So we didn't," Athos says. "Selene is rather more of a natural philosopher." 

"Much to the detriment of the vermin in and around this neighbourhood," Marie-Angelique says, and sighs with pleasure. "Soon enough she'll be ready to practice her arts on humans." 

"Oh, Maman, *really*?" 

"We'll tell you when, darling," Marie-Angelique says, and pats Selene's hand. 

Aramis grins. "*I* would like to learn the arts of poisons from you, Selene. I learned some of this from my own mother, of course —" 

"*Oh*! Of course I'll teach you, Aramis! And then you'll teach me!" Selene's grin is bright and wide. "And then you and Odile will help me assassinate *all* the enemies to the French Crown!" 

Aramis blinks — 

That is a *very* attractive —

And then there is an *unfamiliar* male voice from the door — 

Clearing his throat — 

Aramis had not been paying *attention* — 

He looks *up* — 

And there is a *very* tall man — though not as tall as the *Captain*, who is a truly *massive* individual — with *rigidly* militaristic bearing staring down at Selene. 

He — and he *must* be Laurent — has a kind of *intense* handsomeness to him. He has hair with the same thickness as Athos's, though it's as dark as Selene's, save where it is grey, and his eyes are the same blue as Thomas's. His beard and moustache are nearly entirely grey and white, and *just* as perfectly neat. 

He keeps *more* of a beard than his sons do, though not by much, and he is an honestly *rangy* man, powerful and commanding even in his advanced years. 

His expression is stern. 

Selene looks back at him with an utter lack of concern. 

"Selene. We do not discuss assassination at the *dinner* table," he says.

She blinks — 

Blushes — 

"Yes, Papa, I apologize," she says, and turn to Aramis. "I'm terribly sorry for forgetting myself, Aramis." 

Aramis — does not let himself blink more. "That is quite all right, Selene. There is a natural excitement — and enticement — to such ideas," he says, and smiles. 

Athos hums. "Don't forget, Aramis — you'll be a Musketeer *first*." 

Will you call me your brother again — no. 

No. 

But without that, he is left only staring at Athos, staring into *his* blue eyes and finding — 

Finding pleasure. 

In *him*. 

Aramis looks away, and *remembers* himself, and stands. "Sir —" 

"Oh — please don't stand on ceremony with me, Aramis," Laurent says, and his voice is far more gentle. "Especially not when I'm unconscionably late."

"Yes, *do* sit back down, darling," Marie-Angelique says. "I quite like seeing you there." 

"I — ah." 

"If it helps," Laurent says, and moves close, clasping Aramis's forearm. "I am Laurent d'Achille de la Fère, as you've no doubt already guessed. I am honoured and pleased to make your acquaintance at last, and I hope your stay in our home is both pleasant and *extended*."

"At... last?" 

Marie-Angelique laughs. "My husband moves quickly, as a general should." 

"If you'll forgive me, Madame, I have yet to meet a member of this extended family who does *not* move quickly, in at least *one* way." 

Marie-Angelique purrs — 

And Laurent squeezes Aramis's arm gently — but firmly. 

Aramis looks *up* — 

And Laurent smiles down at him warmly — and *also* firmly. "We have learned, over the years, that improper hesitation often breeds cowardice and *error* in a person, Aramis." 

"Sir, have you not also learned that a lack of proper caution breeds tragedy and *pain*?" 

Athos leans back in his seat and smiles broadly. "He fought my command quite hard, Father." 

Laurent grins — and it almost looks *mad* on his face! "As well he should have done, son," he says, and does not let *go* of Aramis's arm. "You had not yet proven yourself to him. Had he, Aramis?"

"I — no." 

"Has he, yet?" 

Yes. "He... has come closer to doing so, sir." 

The family laughs — including Laurent. "Whereas I have not. Very well, Aramis. Please allow me to begin the *process* of proving myself to you." 

This — 

This is not, simply, a family patriarch. 

This is the former Captain of King's *Musketeers*. 

This is the man who had *recruited* all of the *first* Musketeers. 

This is the man who had *built* the Musketeers out of *nothing* — Aramis blushes. "I..." 

Laurent raises an eyebrow. "No...?" 

"Forgive me, sir —" 

"A moment, Aramis." 

"Of course," Aramis says, and stands *straight*. 

Laurent hums. "Thank you. First, let me say that you are absolutely correct that there is a time and place for caution in the heart of every truly intelligent, truly *wise*, person." 

"*Yes,* sir —" 

Laurent holds up a hand. 

Aramis remembers that he was going to be *quiet* — he stops himself and nods. "Sir." 

"Thank you again. Second, you are also correct that a life entirely without hesitation is a reckless one, and that recklessness can never be held a virtue. However, when an individual shows us intellect, virtue, open-mindedness, creativity, bravery, steadfastness, wisdom, and the wisdom to know that there is always room for more of all of the above? There is *no* room for hesitation. We must take that person for ourselves, if they will have us. We must make spaces for that person in our lives, and in our homes. We must offer all of ourselves to them — all of *our* worth, and all of our honesty — in the hope that we will be accepted. 

"We must not allow our perfectly *irritating* — and natural — fears of rejection and future pain to stop us. We must not allow those fears to *break* us — and we must *never* allow those fears to lead us to lives of *privation*. 

"This life, I have learned, can *shower* us with true wealth, true *meaning*, if we allow it to do so, Aramis. We *must* allow it to do so. Now, please, sit down and respond as you will," Laurent says, and finally releases him. 

Aramis blushes more — 

And sits —

And waits for Laurent to take *his* seat — 

Aramis feels as though he has been asked to deliver a *speech* on the nature of God and man — except that he could do *that* easily and well, if heretically. 

He licks his lips. He — no. He will not fail. He nods to everyone at the table and turns back to Laurent. "Sir, I feel your words are entirely sensible, but... I do *not* feel that any of you have had enough time with *me* that you could come to know such deep *truths*." 

Laurent raises his eyebrow again. "We have been in constant communication with each other, Aramis. *Every* conversation, however brief, you have had with *one* of us has been shared with *all* of us." 

"But *how*? You all lead separate lives, in separate *places*. You, sir, you were just at *court*. How could you *know*? Do you have runners constantly moving back and forth..." But. Aramis trails off. 

Everyone at the table is staring at him with *dumbstruck* expressions. 

Dumbstruck expressions which are rapidly turning *mortified*. 

It — 

Aramis flushes hard. "Please, I did not mean to offend —" 

Marie-Angelique *coughs* as though she is *choking*. "You did *not*, darling, I assure you." 

"Please do not treat me *delicately* —" 

"I will be blunt," she says. "We are all in constant communication by means of blood-magic, Aramis." 

"I. What." 

Athos licks his lips. "When Porthos's parents were bound to each other, there was blood-magic used —" 

"I know this thing!" 

"— and this allowed them to bind *other* people to them, if in a less all-encompassing manner. We can — and do — speak to each other at great distances in our *minds*."

Aramis blinks — 

And *blinks* — 

Tries to *imagine* — no. "No one... you did not tell me this thing." 

Laurent clears his throat, and manages to sound embarrassed when he does it. "Our generation has been bound this way for over thirty years, Aramis. Our children were bound at birth — *before* birth, in the cases of Treville's and Amina's children. We —" 

"You took it for granted that I would know." 

"Precisely that," Marie-Angelique says, and smiles somewhat painfully. "You have our deepest apologies, Aramis. And when I use the word 'our'..."

"You... are speaking for Porthos's family, as well?" 

She inclines her head. 

"Quite especially for Porthos," Athos says, "who is currently being convinced not to shift and *run* here so that he can apologize to you *personally*."

Aramis inhales — he has not *seen* *all* of Porthos's dog. 

He —

He would *like* to see — 

He would like to be *close* to Porthos again, and speak to him, and make him tell Aramis everything *about* this kind of communication — how does the binding *work*?

Will they be bound in this way if they mate?

Why had Amina not *said*? Had she taken that knowledge for granted? Or is there something else Aramis must *do*?

He wants to see inside Porthos's *mind*!

He wants — 

And Athos had said Porthos was in *love* with him — 

Porthos hadn't *denied* it — 

Porthos's gaze on him had been so — 

So — 

And Aramis realizes, with a start, that he has been lost in his *thoughts* of Porthos for some unknown length of time. 

"I — I apologize..." 

Aramis realizes that he misses Porthos. 

Athos gives him a *shrewd* look. "*Should* Porthos come, Aramis? He could be here very quickly." 

"No! I — I mean — I accept his apologies. All of your apologies."

They're *all* studying him — 

So Aramis pulls on a wry smile. "It is somewhat relieving to have all of you fail at being perfect hosts in *some* way."

The laughter defuses the tension, but, even once Marie-Angelique summons the servants with their meal, Aramis can feel himself being studied by all of them. 

He can feel himself —

It is not a *harsh* study. He can sense this thing. 

These people are, in no way, waiting for him to *fail* at something. But... 

They are worried for him. 

They are...

They have decided, for reasons they have been admirably open in sharing, to care about him. 

Now he has to decide what to do about that. 

Aramis eats his — perfect — meal and lets himself listen more than speak. 

He lets himself think, as much as he can. 

After dinner, Marie-Angelique takes Selene off to her study so that they can read together, and Thomas excuses himself to work on his correspondence — after a promise to interrogate Aramis mercilessly about his studies, whenever Aramis gives him the chance to do so. 

Their smiles are warm, welcoming, *open*, and — 

And — 

And once Aramis is alone with Athos and Laurent, Laurent smiles sharply. "I know the expression on your face, Aramis." 

Aramis blinks *again* — no. "You do, sir?" 

"Yes. My brother Treville wore it often in the days and months before he and Amina were mated." 

Aramis blushes *hotly*. "I — I do not —" 

Laurent raises a hand. "We all know you remain unsure. That you, perhaps, wish to come to know more about Porthos than what your instincts tell you...?" 

"Yes. Please." 

Laurent inclines his head. "He is dutiful, but never dull. He is serious-minded, but never afraid to indulge in recreation when it is time for such things. He is unfailingly bold, but admits to his fears readily and easily. He has an eye for fine things, and a great deal of *flair*, but he is no braggart. He seeks to learn *always*, and seeks to *teach* what he has learned. He lets no one languish in ignorance who will *consent* to learn, and..." He pauses, then, and smiles at Athos for a moment before turning back to Aramis. "I have wished my son were his mate far more than once." 

And Aramis blinks *again* — 

Somehow he had not *thought* — but. 

But. It makes sense. 

If they love Porthos as their own, and they *approve* of his relationship with Athos, as they clearly do, then... 

Then. 

Especially since Thomas is safely betrothed to a woman who is nearly guaranteed to be able to provide him with *many* healthy children. 

*Aramis* looks to Athos helplessly — 

And Athos smiles softly. "I knew, of course, what my parents — *all* of our parents — hoped. Porthos and I hoped the same. When we could no longer deny the obvious, our dreams changed. As I've told you." 

A brother. 

A brother for both of them. 

A brother... for them to share?

Aramis wants to see inside *Athos's* mind, *too*. He wants — 

And both Laurent and Athos are giving him *shrewd* looks again. 

"I... need to know everything. *Everything*," Aramis says, and laughs ruefully. 

"That is entirely comprehensible, Aramis," Laurent says. "Whom would you like answers from right now?" 

Porthos. 

*Porthos*. 

Porthos Porthos — "I..." 

Athos hums and stands. "I believe it's time for Aramis to return home, Father." 

"Oh —" 

"I believe you're entirely correct, son," Laurent says, and stands, as well. 

Aramis stands helplessly. "If — if both of you wish to speak — more —" 

Laurent clasps Aramis's forearm again. "You need not be mated to be bound, Aramis, and there are many benefits to the binding over and above the facilitated conversation." He raises an eyebrow. "We will be here."

"I — yes, sir." 

Laurent nods once, smiles warmly again, and steps back — and Athos is right there to guide them back to the armoury. 

This time, there is no one outside of it listening.

"How does the... binding work?" 

"Shared blood," Athos says, as he arms himself once more. 

Aramis does not even try to tell the man that he can get back to the de Tréville household on his own. "Yes? A... cut?" 

"The quickest and easiest way to do it would be to have a member of Porthos's family — or Porthos himself — bite you hard enough to break the skin, and then lick the wound a few times. Their saliva will infect — bind — you, heal the wound, and cause it to scar over instantaneously." 

"Truly?" 

Athos grins and turns his back, lifting his short ponytail to show... silvery scars on the back of his neck. It is difficult to see just what *sort* of scars they are in the uncertain light, but it's clear that no blade had made them. He turns back to face Aramis. "That is the *first* place Porthos bit me. I had already been bound, of course — I'm told Uncle Treville did it himself with a sharp blade when I was an infant, so that the pain would be lessened — but..." 

"You wanted Porthos's bite." 

"Yes," Athos says, and gives him a steady look. "I wanted everything from him."

"Do you still?" 

"I no longer wish to be his mate," Athos says, and raises his eyebrow.

"It must have seemed so perfect. It must — you were — and are! — his brother, his lover, his *partner*..." 

"In all things, yes," Athos says, and buckles on his belts. "I want to be his brother, lover, and partner forever, Aramis. I want to be his *pack* forever. I want? To be his pack with *you*." 

The reflex to ask 'why' is — only a reflex. 

He knows why — for this man. 

Or. 

"Are you physically attracted to me?" 

"Yes," Athos says, smoothly and easily, as he checks the placement of his weapons. "Very much so." 

Oh. 

But — that had been coming. Truly, it had, and — 

"Do you often fuck boys?" 

Athos raises an eyebrow and smiles, moving closer. "No, Aramis. Though I don't *fuck* anyone. I make love — to adults, as a general rule. I require intimate conversation, shared interests, shared *experiences*. It's quite rare that a young man — or a young woman — has the maturity to converse as an equal with someone my age." 

That... Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

"Hm. I said something incorrect. Please tell me what it was." 

"Many of the men who wished to *excuse* their behaviour would tell the boys and girls selling themselves at Madame Margaud's that they and only they were truly mature enough for them." 

Athos's expression is both horrified and disgusted. "I did *not* mean *that*." 

"I did not think you did..." 

"No?" 

"Well..." Aramis smiles and spreads his hands. "I decided to give you a chance to redeem yourself." 

Athos hums and smiles. "I appreciate that a *great* deal, Aramis. But — no, I tend to feel about the matter how Porthos does — and Porthos *does* make love with younger men and women, from time to time —" 

"Oh." 

"Yes?" 

"No — no, go on!" 

"Hm. Shall we retrieve our horses?" 

'Our horses.' Just as if Gabrielle is truly *his* — but. 

But Jeannette doesn't want her, and Treville had said — 

Treville had *given* — 

"Aramis? Are you —" 

"I am well!" he tries. And then — no. No. "I was... overwhelmed. Again. For a moment," he says, and smiles ruefully. 

Athos nods thoughtfully. "Please tell me how I may be of assistance." 

"I..." Being on a horse — *any* horse, much less one as fine as Gabrielle — will help. "Let us... let us go to our horses." 

Athos raises an eyebrow — and then nods, leading them out of the house with a firm, gentle hand on Aramis's shoulder. 

Blanchard wishes them well. 

Once on the street, Athos says, quietly, "In Porthos's estimation — and the estimation of his father and Uncles before him — an adult who chooses to make love with young people must do so with their eyes open. With their *mind* open. They must not shrink from their choices in any way — if they do, then they ought not to be doing it in the first place. An adult who chooses to make love with the young must understand that they are making love to another person, not simply a diminutive fantasy. They must understand that that person has desires and needs and a self which are different from that of the adult they would grow into, and they must not run over them in the interest of their own lusts. 

"An adult who *does* run over a young person in such a way is worse than a rabid beast, and deserves a lengthy and attentive visit from... me," Athos says, and shows his teeth in the gloom.

"This is a very *particular* philosophy for dealing with *whores*, Athos." 

"None of us are very capable of enjoying ourselves if the person — the *person* — we are with is not also enjoying *themselves*, Aramis." 

And this... is a very *queer* fear within himself. 

He is, even as Athos greets the stableboys at the hostler's and makes light conversation while their horses are readied, standing like a bale of *hay* and running through scenarios in his mind in which Porthos pauses to ask him about his needs and pleasure at every *moment* when they are making love — 

In which Porthos treats him gently, sweetly, *delicately* — 

In which Porthos barely *chafes* him with his rough *hands*, and — 

And then Gabrielle and Athos's Actaeon are there, and it's time to mount, and — 

"Would you tell me why you're horrified...?" 

"I..." Aramis licks his lips. 

"Hm. I've said *something* wrong to you." 

He can't lie. He can't *lie*. 

"You must know that I —" 

"Would you..." 

"Probably?" 

Aramis laughs helplessly. 

"I'm very fond of that sound." 

He is attracted to Aramis. 

He is — 

"How... *how* does Porthos make love to boys?"

"Hm. I'm not sure this answer is going to *help* you —" 

"Tell me, *please*." 

"However they wish. He takes a *vast* amount of pleasure out of pleasuring young people senseless." 

"And then... leaving?" 

Athos looks at him — 

*Studies* him — 

And nods. "You believe he will treat you with kid gloves." 

"I —" 

"You are honestly *worried* —" 

"Athos —" 

"Aramis. If you *ask* him — or me — for pain with your pleasure, if you tell us that pain *is* your pleasure, you will *have* it." 

Aramis blushes *deeply*, hoping it does not show in the dark, hoping —

Hoping for so much. 

And he can *ask*. "Are you sharing this conversation with him? Now?" 

"Yes." 

Aramis licks his lips. "Is he... aroused?" Will he take *his* pleasure from even outré desires?

"I believe there is more you didn't say... but. Yes, he is *intensely* aroused. And debating furiously with himself whether it would be too pressuring to ask me to share with you what he's thinking —" 

"Tell me!" 

"As you say. He wants you to know that he aches for you. That he has *been* aching for you all *night*. He wants you to know that the thought of gripping your naked body roughly — just that — made his cock spasm and leak *copiously* —" 

"He did not say it that way!" 

"I — hm. Did you want me to attempt to ape his diction?" 

Aramis opens his mouth — 

Thinks about that — 

Aramis closes his mouth. "No. Thank you." 

"You're quite welcome. Would you like more?" 

Aramis opens his mouth to say 'yes' — and moans. 

*Loudly*. 

And *then* he realizes that he's hard, that he's aching, that he can *point* to where Porthos is, that he knows that Porthos is pacing in a small *space*, that Porthos is — 

Is — 

Aramis shivers and stops. 

*Stops*. 

And sets about calming Gabrielle, who is not *very* annoyed by his behaviour, but is still *somewhat* annoyed. 

He knows — 

He knows *Porthos* knows, now, about that loss of control. 

That Porthos knows *why* he lost control. 

That Porthos... but. 

"Is Porthos... happy?"

"No, because you're not." 

"*I* —" But. *But*. Aramis nods. "I still need to see him. I still *want* to see him. I still... ache."

"He would like to know where you'd like for him to be." 

Aramis licks his lips, and thinks about what it would be like to have Porthos's many good scents in his bed — 

He can't ask for that. 

He can't — without being ready to give much more. "I will come to him in his rooms, if that is well." 

"It is," Athos says. "Would you like to speak with anyone else tonight? Or should Porthos have his family leave you be for now?" 

He is hard as *steel* — "I... believe I would be better left," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. 

Athos hums. "Yes, I see. Adolescence was challenging enough without... well. Do *not* scruple at using the oil in your bedroom. You'll regret it deeply if you do —" 

"I know this thing!" 

"All right, then," Athos says mildly, and they ride on. 

There is only a single stableboy waiting for them in the de Tréville stables when they arrive, and Aramis is incapable of not helping him with Gabrielle after he clasps forearms with Athos and sees him off. 

The work is too good — 

The work is too satisfying — 

The work is too *settling*. 

But — with two pairs of hands, the work is over quickly, and there is no excuse to wait. 

No excuse to hold *back*. 

No excuse to — tease himself. 

He does not *run* through the house, or up the stairs, but he walks quickly, and he reaches the door to Porthos's rooms — 

Porthos is in the doorway, breathing deeply. 

Porthos's eyes are gleaming green in the gloom. 

Porthos is wearing nothing but his *breeches* again, and — 

And.

Aramis is very glad of this. "Porthos. I... I missed you."

Porthos breathes deeply again. "I missed you, too, love," he says, and his voice is low, rumbling, *hungry* — 

He is so *hard* under his breeches — 

They are wet and he is *shameless* — 

Aramis can *smell* — and he does not smell like a man, anymore. Not... quite. 

"What are you thinking?" 

"Why — Am I your love?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "Yes. But I don't think that's what you were thinking," he says, and reaches up to grip at the jamb. "You don't have to tell me, if you're uncomfortable, but I'd rather you *tell* me you're uncomfortable." And he raises his eyebrows. 

"Oh. Oh. Yes, Porthos. I... was uncomfortable." 

Porthos pants — once. "Are you still?" 

"A little," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. "I do not wish to offend." 

"I want your honesty just as much as you want mine." 

"I — yes?" 

"Yeah. I want it... I want *you*, Aramis. Every little bit of you. Every bit I can *have*." And he squeezes the jamb — 

The heavy, fat-sheathed muscles of his arms and chest flex and shift — 

He is such a big *man* —

He — 

"Aramis..." 

"You do not smell like — a man. That is what I was thinking," Aramis says, looking *up*. 

Porthos... rumbles a laugh. "No, I don't. How much does it bother you?"

"I..." 

"Mm?" 

"Athos... Athos showed me where you had bitten him. It did not look like a *human* bite, Porthos."

"I don't bite with my human-shaped teeth... when I plan on breaking the skin."

"I. The place where you had bitten him... he said you had bitten him there *first*." 

"The back of his neck. We were boys. Thirteen years old. I was thrusting between his arsecheeks and going mad with the need to fuck him. To *knot* him. I didn't *yet* know he wanted that as much as I did, because we weren't very good at communicating that sort of thing when we first started out. The back of his neck was the most beautiful, most *compelling*, thing I had ever seen, and I bit him without thinking about it." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"I held myself *back* from shifting, from breaking the *skin*... until Athos — Olivier then — shouted and bucked and *begged* me to bite him harder, to take his blood, to bite him *deep*." 

"Oh — *oh* —" 

"I shifted my muzzle and did just that. We both spent ourselves senseless. I howled so much I hurt my throat, a little. I howled *into his neck*."

Aramis *moans* — 

"What do you need to know?" 

"Everything!" 

Porthos smiles and shifts on his big, graceful feet — 

His muscles *flex* — 

"There's nothing I won't tell you, love." 

"I — I — I just wanted..." 

"Yeah?" 

"I needed to know *how* animal you would be... if..." 

"If we mated. That makes sense," Porthos says, and releases the jamb with one hand for long enough to scratch his beard, before starting to reach up again — he stops. "Do you want to come in?" 

"Do you *want* me to?" 

"Always, love. *Always*. I just got distracted by all your scents. It happens." 

"I. I love your scents." 

Porthos rumbles with pure, animal *pleasure* — 

Aramis flushes — 

Wants — 

Wants to — "I — thought about having you in my *bed*, Porthos. I thought about you leaving your scents there, so I could have them —" 

"Anytime you want. Or — no." 

"No?" 

Porthos flares his nostrils twice — and laughs. "Not sure how well I'd do with you sleeping in my bed, love." 

"Oh. Oh. You would... lose control?" 

"No. But I wouldn't get much sleep for however long you were there, and then I'd have *difficulty* keeping my control."

Aramis frowns. That...

Porthos flares his nostrils and shakes himself. "Please tell me why you're upset." 

"I'm not — it is only a little —" 

"Please — or. Do you want me to lose control with you, love?" 

Aramis's heart *slams* in his chest — 

He can't *breathe* — 

All he can imagine is being pinned, spread, *bitten*, *taken* —

"Aramis... I'll be as rough with you as you like. As fast. As *brutal*. As *mean*."

"Nnh —" 

"But you're not going to get a *complete* loss of control. Your body can't take that."

Aramis *frowns* — 

"Oh, love. I just want to teach you how good it can be —" 

"It will not be good for *me* if it is not good for *you*." 

"Did you think it wouldn't be? Do you like to be fucked, love? Do you like to be fucked *hard* and *fast* and *rough*?" 

"I — I —" 

"Thought about that. *Dreamed* about giving it to you until you were howling for me like my own pretty little pup." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Do you have any *idea* how many breeches I've gone through tonight?"

Aramis *blinks* — 

And Porthos laughs and cups his face with one big, *rough* hand. "Aramis. I'm still a healthy adult male. I'm *going* to love fucking you blind... even if I have to keep just a *little* bit of a lead on to keep you safe. It's the same thing Uncle Kitos has to do when he's fucking any woman *other* than Mum, eh?" 

Oh.

Aramis licks his lips — 

Aramis *thinks* of the Captain — and is he *proportionately* endowed? — and Amina — 

Marie-Angelique — 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. "This... makes sense." 

"Good," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's cheek with his thumb. "Is this all right?" 

"Yes, Porthos."

Porthos smiles softly — and then *hotly* again. "Will you tell me?" 

"Tell you what?" 

Porthos licks his lips — and just a bit of his *face* — 

"Oh —" 

"What you thought about when you were tossing yourself off to me. What you *dreamed* about."

Aramis pants — 

"I have to learn how to start treating my little love *right*..."

You told me you were mine!

"I have to..." And Porthos growls and strokes down to the corner of Aramis's mouth with his thumb. He *stares* at Aramis's mouth — 

*He* pants — 

"I have to give you everything. Everything." 

"Porthos..." 

"Tell me, love. Tell me... something. *Anything*." 

Yes. Yes. "I was... hurting myself. My cock. After the *first* time I spent." 

Porthos rumbles. "Squeezing? Slaps? Something else?" 

"Squeezing. Very — very *firmly*. I wanted to punish myself for *needing* to spend again." 

"Oh, love..." 

"But then... you were with me. You were... wrapped all around me, and pushing your fingers between mine, and asking me if I truly wanted to hurt myself, and, if I did, *how* I wanted to hurt. So that you could do it." 

Porthos growls. "Yeah. You know me better by the moment, love. What happened then?" 

"I — went. A little mad. I needed your *hands* —" 

"My. My calluses?" 

"*Yes*. I turned my fingernails on my balls, I tried to pretend — and then I imagined you pushing two fingers back *behind* my balls, two of your good, thick fingers —" 

Porthos *snarls* — "Stop." 

Aramis pants. He wants to *say* more, he wants to *speak*, he wants to *share* with Porthos — 

He wants to spend *time* with Porthos, *his* Porthos, and he *must* be his, Aramis cannot take anything — 

Anything — but. But. His heart is thundering again. He is *panting* for good *and* bad reasons. He is —

He is wondering how much of this he has chosen. 

A part of him is. 

What he *says* is: "Is it — too much?" 

Porthos stands straight — and gestures to his breeches, which are *translucent* with slick. 

"Oh, *Porthos* —" 

"I know you're hungry for me. We're hungry for each *other*. *Needy* for each other. But it's not yet time."

"I... no longer enjoy the more cautious aspects of my personality!" 

Porthos *laughs* — "*I* love them. I love everything *about* you. And we're getting to know each other, yeah?"

"Yes, but —" 

"But you want to be run over...? Just a little?" 

"More than a *little*," Aramis says, but — "But. I have to admit that I can only say this because I know that you know it is not enough," he says, and smiles ruefully.

Porthos strokes up into Aramis's hair —

"*Oh* — *yes* —" 

Porthos rumbles and tugs and pets and caresses and *pulls* — 

"*Porthos*." 

"Go back to your rooms, love. And then... come back. We'll *talk*. We'll enjoy each other's *company*... until it's time to sleep."

Aramis breathes *deep* — and grins. "*Yes*, Porthos." 

Porthos grins back. "My boy... I don't know how I got so *lucky*," he says, rumbling and pulling back — 

Stepping back into *his* rooms — 

The inhuman *shape* of his cock is so *clear* — 

"Aramis. *Go*." 

"Oh — yes, Porthos," Aramis says, licking his lips and *leaving*. 

He'll come back *very* soon.


	7. There is nothing about you he's not greedy for, Aramis.

Porthos had told Aramis that all of this would get more intense, that they'd get more *needy* for each other — 

More desperate and hungry and *wild* — 

But those were just words. 

Those weren't hours in this house without Aramis, pacing like a caged *beast*. 

Those weren't *minutes* with Aramis back, leaving him *fountaining* slick. 

*Both* of his parents had been *really* clear that once they were augmented and bound to dog-spirits, waiting to mate hadn't really been an option they'd *had*, but somehow... 

Somehow, it hadn't quite been real for Porthos. 

Hadn't been *visceral*. 

Not until Aramis's musk was high in his nose and he was always — *always* — moments away from *needing* to toss himself off lest he do something bloody untoward. 

Fuck, he'd been able to *feel* his teeth sinking into the soft skin of Aramis's throat just a few minutes ago, his fingertips digging in against the whipcord-lean muscles of Aramis's upper arms — 

He'd hold him steady — 

He'd hold him so *still* — 

He'd make Aramis *take* his bite, feel it, feel every sharp tooth digging in — 

Making him *his* — 

And then... 

Then they could've gotten to work on Aramis's fantasies. 

*All* of his fantasies, including the ones he isn't quite sure about, yet — 

And Porthos is pacing again, growling again, sniffing and snuffling at his own hands where they'd touched Aramis — 

He needs more — 

He needs so much *more* — no. No. 

It's not time. 

It's *not* time, which means he can keep himself *together*. 

Keep the lead on *tight* — and take himself to his rumpled, fragrant bed. 

He hasn't been able to let the maids take the linens even though they really ought to go. 

He hasn't — 

He needs the comfort of his own scents, since he can't have Aramis's. 

He needs his den. 

And he has it. 

He strips off his soaked breeches, lies down, grips himself, and — 

("— and then I imagined you pushing two fingers back *behind* my balls, two of your good, thick fingers —")

That. 

*That*. And he'd have Aramis slick, slick all over with sweat and spend and *oil*, oil right there as he massaged the little swelling behind his balls — 

So firm and tight — 

And Aramis would make *noise* for him, so much *noise*, and maybe he'd blush for it, be embarrassed — 

Porthos would teach him better, *show* him better with his own needy growls and croons and *barks* — 

He'd never bloody shut *up*, and he'd push back and back until he could feel that little hole, that tender little *hole* — 

Has Aramis been fucking himself? 

Is he doing it right now? 

Should they have given him a toy — no. No, Porthos wouldn't have been able to take that without needing to watch, needing to see, taste, sniff, hear, *touch* — 

Everything — 

*Everything* — 

But maybe in that brothel, when he was so 'curious', so 'hungry', so *eager*. 

Maybe away from his mother's watchful eye, and he would be preparing himself for the men he planned to sell himself to — 

Ivory phalluses for his perfect little *arse* as he twisted himself up — 

As he bit his lip to hold back the noise —

And Porthos would be there. 

Porthos would have crawled into his window some night with a full purse and every promise in the world, just to see, just to *touch* — 

Taste — 

Lick in next to the toy — 

And Porthos is growling now, pumping his knot, leaking all over his belly and *working* his cock with his other hand — 

He needs — 

He *needs* — 

And he'd make Aramis want to give it to him, make him want to — 

To — 

Ah, fuck, he'd have to pull the toy out, shove his tongue all the way *up* — 

Make Aramis *howl* for him, shake and *quiver* — 

Make Aramis *loose* — 

*Sloppy* with spit and oil, and he needs — 

He *needs* — 

And Aramis wouldn't be afraid when Porthos started to shift more, and more — 

Such a brave boy, so bloody perfect — 

Aramis would grip Porthos's sensitive ears and hold him in place, hold him where Aramis *needed* him — 

Until he spent — 

Until he filled the *world* with all those delicious *scents*, so musky, so thick and sweet and *young* — 

Porthos howls — 

He's shoving two fingers up Aramis's arse in his mind — 

Porthos pumps his knot *hard* — 

He's making Aramis *arch* for his fingers — 

Porthos bucks and bucks and — 

He pushing deep, *deep*, he's — 

Porthos howls more and *spurts*, spilling all over his hand, his belly — 

His *chest*, and he's fucking Aramis so hard — 

He's pushing those knees up to his chest — 

And, in his mind, Aramis is smiling at him, smiling so sweetly, so *happily* — 

His scents are so — 

Porthos *snarls* and spurts *more* — 

And then collapses, panting, on his bed. 

He is...

Well, this is the *fourth* time he's tossed himself off today, so he actually *is* softening. 

Significantly, even. 

He'd be relieved if he wasn't still a bit afraid of what's going to happen when he smells Aramis on his hands again. 

Mum is laughing at him in his head. 

She's *trying* to be quiet about it — the whole pack is trying to give him privacy, which is nice — but that just makes it more obvious. 

(I'm *sorry*, sweet boy —) 

Mum. 

(It's just —) And she laughs harder. 

For a while. 

A *long* while. 

Porthos sighs, gets up, and goes to one of the two clean basins of water left to wash himself down. Mum'll settle down eventually. 

He washes his hands first. 

*Thoroughly*. 

It's not that he won't be touching Aramis again just as soon as Aramis *allows* it, it's just — 

(The principle of the thing, sweet boy...?) 

Are you back, then, Mum? 

Mum coughs in his head — 

Snickers — 

Snickers *more* — 

Porthos sighs and keeps washing himself. 

(No, no, I am — I am fine. It is only — I cannot *help* but remember how *pruney* my fingers were before your father and I were mated —) 

Oh — bloody *hell*, Mum — 

(— and how *chafed* your father's cock was when I finally *saw* it.) 

Porthos snorts *helplessly*. Interesting calluses?

(*Very* interesting. Poor man. *You* will not have to wait so long.) 

I — 

(You will not!) 

Mum — 

(Already, he is sobbing your *name* —) 

Are you bloody *lurking*?

(Odile is, like a good girl.) 

Porthos stops — 

Licks his lips — 

I'm buying her a new gun.

(I want an arquebusier!) Odile says — 

Anything you say — 

(And he's begging now.)

*Shit*. For what? 

(Nothing in particular. Just 'please, Porthos, *please*' over and — oh, he just screamed —) 

Porthos is *sweating* again — Did he — did he just spend — 

(For the *second* time, yes,) Odile says. (I'm getting out of range — he's calming down.) 

Right — 

(*Can* Selene and I take him with us when we're assassinating people?)

I —

But Mum is looking at him. 

And so is Daddy. 

And so are Aunt Marie-Angelique and Uncle Laurent. 

And so are Uncle Kitos and Uncle *Reynard*. 

*Shit*. 

Porthos licks his lips. Yes? Yes. 

Odile beams in his mind. 

But — he's going to have his missions — 

(I *know*, Porthos. We won't *need* him. We just want to work with him when we *can*.)

Right, yes, that's — 

Odile snickers meanly. (I'm going to remember this when I have a mate of my own, big brother.) 

You'll be humiliating yourself, too!

Mum strokes them both. (She is a woman, sweet boy. Her humiliation will be less all-encompassing than yours for this reason *alone*.) 

Porthos frowns. 

Odile giggles. (You'd better get dressed...) 

Fuck — 

Porthos dries off *quickly* and pulls on another pair of breeches — 

Thinks about a dressing gown — 

Thinks *hard* — 

But he hasn't bothered at any point in the last few days. 

He has nothing to hide from Aramis. 

He never *will* have anything to hide from Aramis —

(Good boy.) 

Thanks, Mum. Thanks, little sister — 

(I'm asking Thomas to design something for me for my new arquebusier. Talk to him!) 

I will — 

(And you have to give me more *training* —) 

I will — 

(You've been spending all your time at the garrison and —) 

(Odile.) And Mum's voice is just a little hard. It stops Odile in her tracks *and* makes Porthos feel like a heel. 

He can't — 

I'll be around more. I'll *make* time for you, little sister. I promise, Porthos says, and moves back to his door. 

Odile's smile in his mind is — massive. 

Bright — 

Savage as anyone could *wish*. 

Porthos grins back. That's *right*. We're going to tear every last one of your weaknesses *apart*. 

(*Yes*, big brother!) 

Porthos rumbles and opens his senses a little — 

Odile is right by her *own* door.

Porthos rumbles louder. Love you. 

(Love *you* — oh...) 

Yeah, I smell him. I... uh...

Odile snickers. (Good *night*, big brother,) she says, and moves away from the door — 

And Mum's touch dims on him — 

And Aramis is... right there. 

Right bloody there, fully-dressed and smelling like musk and spend and — 

He'd washed. 

He'd *washed*, but there's only so much that can *help* where mates are concerned. Porthos growls — 

And Aramis gives him a curious look. A *questioning* look. 

Porthos blinks — "What is it, love?" And he makes room for Aramis to come in. 

"You seemed... distant, for a moment." 

Porthos smiles. "I was talking to Odile — and Mum." 

"*Oh* — in your *mind*," Aramis says, and looks *excitedly* thoughtful — 

He walks in — 

He breathes deep — 

He looks back at Porthos with *heavy-lidded eyes* — 

Porthos rumbles and cups his face and — doesn't kiss him breathless. Does *not*. He moves one hand to Aramis's shoulder and one to his hair again, soft hair, thick —

He pets — 

He strokes and pushes his fingers through it — 

Aramis moans and laughs — "Should I not be petting *you*?" 

Porthos grins. "Absolutely. All the bloody time —" 

"What did you stop yourself from doing before?"

"Kissing you. Kissing you deep, hard. Licking into your mouth and — mm. Do you like that sort of thing?" 

"I... am not very experienced..." 

Oh... "No?" Porthos massages Aramis's scalp and walks them to the couch in his sitting room. 

"Oh — ooh — you will not let me think very deeply if you keep doing this!" 

"Maybe I just want you to keep making adorable noises," Porthos says, and sits them down — 

Aramis *giggles* — 

Porthos's heart *slams* in his chest — "Oh, precious..." 

And Aramis sighs and reaches up to stroke Porthos's hands before tugging them away from his scalp. 

"No...?" 

"Not *yet*," Aramis says firmly, and holds Porthos's hands between them. His skin is pale gold against the brown of Porthos's own skin, and Porthos just wants to keep him in the sun for months, just wants to — 

Naked and beautiful and *free* — 

"What are you *thinking*, Porthos? And — I am precious?" 

Porthos licks his lips and stares into Aramis's beautiful yellow-brown eyes, so wide and full. So — happy and curious and *open* in this moment — 

"Tell me!" 

Porthos grins. "You're more precious, more *valuable*, than anything in this world. Than anything on *any* world." 

"Oh —" 

"And I was looking at your beautiful golden skin and thinking about having you naked in the sun for months and months."

For a moment, Aramis is only giving him a *desperate* look — 

"Aramis —" 

But. Then he turns away, and frowns, and his scents are — 

Porthos growls and shakes them off. "What's wrong?" 

Aramis firms his mouth into a hard line and starts to shake his head — and then immediately stops that, lowering his head. 

Porthos strokes his strong, deft hands. "It's all right, whatever it is." 

"I... I am scarred." 

Porthos blinks — but he's not a fool. "The priests, yeah?" 

"Yes. And — and my father. I — I apologize for not telling you —" 

"Shh," Porthos says, and tilts Aramis's face up so that they can see each other. 

So that Aramis can see *him*. 

"I won't tell you I don't care. I do. I care that my precious love was hurt by those fucks and not cared for —" He growls. "I know Athos told you some of what *he* does to people who hurt children —" 

"Not... not *specifics*, Porthos, but yes." 

Porthos nods and searches those eyes. "I wish I'd brought him with me. But not because you're scarred." 

"I — no?" 

"No, precious. Because they hurt you *more* than I knew. Because I *never* scruple at letting him have the arseholes who deserve the torture I tend not to be able to give. Because —" 

"Do you... never?" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows — but he understands this question, too. "I never do, no. The dog inside me won't let me." 

Aramis blinks rapidly and perks immediately with *curiosity*. "Why is this! Tell me —" 

"Wait one moment —" 

"No! Tell —" 

"*Wait*," Porthos says, using the voice of command. 

Aramis inhales sharply — that pulled him up short. "Yes, Porthos. I will wait." 

"Good boy. You need to know — you're always going to be perfect to me. *For* me. You're always going to be *immeasurably* precious and valuable. You're always going to be *exactly* what I want. Exactly what I *need* —" 

"Porthos —" 

"You're always going to be —" Porthos growls and shakes his head. "I'm *yours*, Aramis," he says. "*Yours*."

Aramis makes a small sound and *stares* at him. 

Just — stares. 

Porthos rumbles and cups his face. "You could be scarred anywhere. *Everywhere*. You could be missing a bloody *leg*. You could be bald as an egg and have a pot-belly —" 

"*I*!" 

"You're perfect. *You* are. The fact that you're *also* ridiculously beautiful... well. That's just it. You'd *be* ridiculously beautiful to me *anyway*. Do you see?" 

Aramis frowns...

Frowns *thoughtfully* — 

Porthos pets and strokes him. "Two more things, little precious." 

"I — yes?" 

"Yeah. One? I love scars. I should've said that first," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "I spent a *long* time lusting after Uncle Reynard's cheek-scars and wishing for some good ones of my own." 

"*Oh*. And... And Athos's mouth-scarring?" 

"One of our first missions. We were surrounded — and there were too many inconvenient witnesses for me to use my powers *obviously*. He took a *lot* of wounds while I went *mad*... and he asked to keep the scar on his mouth once we were safe and secure and I *could* heal him."

"But why?"

"Because he saw how I was looking at it... and because he wanted the reminder to keep himself from getting us into *problematic* situations like that again." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully again. 

"Makes sense?" 

"Yes, Porthos. What is the other thing?"

"The other thing is this: Mating *makes* you choose your mate, which you already knew. But even if I didn't *already* find boys who vaguely approached your sort of gorgeousness attractive? I would find *you* attractive, because you're suited for me in all those *other* ways." 

"And... I would find *you* attractive." 

"That's right. Mum didn't go for men like Daddy before she actually laid eyes on him, and Daddy didn't go for *women*. But they were still just right for each other. They were good at being *friends* and *siblings* even before they were officially mated. *Long* before." 

"And we are... right for each other? Even though you are not happy?" 

Porthos strokes more, tugs on Aramis's hair a little the way he'd liked before — 

His scents deepen just a little —

"I'm happy when you're happy, precious." 

"So simple?"

"It's *right* to make your mate happy," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's cheek with his thumb-callus. "Nothing could be more right." 

"Oh — Porthos," Aramis says, and *rubs* his cheek against Porthos's thumb — 

"Yeah? Hard like that?" 

"Please —" 

"Here," Porthos says, and pets Aramis more firmly, more roughly — 

And Aramis's smile for that is warm, sweet, *happy* — 

His *scents* — 

Porthos rumbles and keeps that *right* up — 

"My..." 

"Your?" 

Aramis blushes — but doesn't look away. 

His heart is beating faster. 

He smells so *hopeful* — 

Porthos licks his lips. "What is it, little precious? What can I do?" 

"Tell me..." Aramis licks *his* lips — and then inhales deeply and squares his shoulders. "You said you were *mine*." 

"I am," Porthos says, and leaves himself open, clear — 

Aramis moans — 

Pushes closer — 

Closer than *that*, and Porthos — can't. 

He pulls Aramis in for a *tight* hug — 

"Oof —" 

"I'll let you breathe in just a bit —" 

Aramis throws his arms around Porthos's neck — 

Kisses Porthos's *throat* — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"My Porthos, I am happy *now*." 

Porthos squeezes tighter *reflexively* — 

"Uff —" 

"Sorry — *sorry* —" 

"Do not apologize!" 

"That was a bit wheezed —" 

"Just the same!" 

"I won't apologize, then," Porthos says, and holds Aramis. Holds his beautiful — 

Oh, his perfect, beautiful — 

Porthos kisses his ear. Just — a few times. 

"Oh — my Porthos..." 

"My Aramis...?" 

This close, he can feel Aramis's heart beating faster. Porthos strokes his back in long, firm, soothing motions. "It's all —" 

"It seems... that I must... be ready. For everything. If I tell you that I am yours. If I tell you the *truth*." 

Porthos's *belly* clenches — 

He *licks* Aramis's ear helplessly — 

"Oh —" 

And then he pushes Aramis back so they can meet each other's eyes. "It's not *time*." 

Aramis blows out a harsh breath. "You feel so good. You *are* so good. You — you have wished for a mate to take care of?"

Porthos smiles. "I didn't dream of that, no." 

"Oh. No?" 

"No. I should have, though. It... this is so perfect for me. This... feeds me."

Aramis makes a needy sound and pushes against Porthos's *grip* on him — 

"You need me to hold you again, precious?" 

"*Yes*. Hold me *tight*. Pet me, and — and take *care* of me." 

Porthos growls and *hauls* Aramis in, spreading his long, lean thighs over his lap — 

"Oh, yes — let me feel you —" 

"Like this?" And Porthos presses them together, nice and tightly. 

Aramis moans and hums and *squeezes* him. "You are very good to your Aramis." 

Porthos rumbles *helplessly*. 

"You could be even better to him..." And, if anything, Aramis's scents get even better, even more excited, happy, *sparking* — 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles — "Tell me how, mm? Tell me everything I can do," he says, and strokes him. 

"Tell me about your *dog*. Tell me — your dog will not let you hurt people? He is protective and kind?" 

"No more than I am," Porthos says, and licks Aramis's temples — 

Sniffs his hair — 

Rumbles more — no, he has to give his boy *answers*. "Dogs don't *play* with their kills, precious. They don't mess about. If there's someone they want dead, they kill them, simple as that. Drawing the process out tends to *feel* wrong to a dog, even if that dog *really* dislikes whoever's being killed." 

Aramis nods slowly. "This makes sense... all of your pack are like this?" 

"Well..." 

"No?" 

Porthos thinks of *every* story Uncle Kitos and Uncle Reynard had told him and Athos about Mum and Daddy — 

About what they got *up* to on their nights *out* — 

About why they *never* let Daddy handle the *interrogations* — 

"What are you *thinking*, my Porthos?" 

"I'm thinking about Mum and Daddy," Porthos says, and licks Aramis's temples again. "*They're* a bit more to the Athos side of things." 

"Oh. Perhaps because they were not bound to dogs until they were adults?" 

"When I've talked to Daddy about it, that's been his theory. Mum is more blithe about the whole thing. She doesn't like hard and fast rules for anything." 

Another slow nod. "That is very wise." 

"Yeah, I think so, too — mostly. But you look at a dog — just about *any* dog, whether or not they're a shifter — and you're going to get someone more like me than like Daddy or Mum." 

"This is so?" 

"Oh, yeah. They're *hammers*. I love that about them — the French court can be a dangerous place, and I *need* to know that they're *safe* — but they're still... different." 

"You find them strange, my Porthos?" 

Porthos laughs. "They're strange people!" 

Aramis giggles for him again — and swats him. 

Porthos grins. "Oh, I like *that*." 

"I will beat you all the time! Now tell me everything!" And Aramis leans back enough to meet his eyes. 

"Right you are, precious," Porthos says, and doesn't look away for a moment. "I *love* my parents, and I *respect* them more than anyone or anything else, and I miss them like mad when I go without seeing and smelling them for long periods, even though I can talk to them anytime I want..." 

"But?" 

"They're strange, yeah. I can *feel* the violence in them. The... they're just a bit *darker* than I am. And, you know, we've talked about it." 

"Oh, yes?" 

"Oh, yeah. Mum especially was *confused* by how she and Daddy produced such *calm* children."

"I." 

"Mm?" 

Aramis looks at him. Raises an *eyebrow* at him. 

And Porthos gets it. "You're thinking of our first meeting." 

"I am thinking — you are not so calm with *me*, my Porthos. For *anything*." 

"You're my *mate*. But — I think you've still been around for long enough to see the difference?" 

Aramis frowns, obviously considering... 

Porthos pets him more. 

Just — 

He can do that all bloody *night* — 

"Your father, he has been *very* calm. Very *soothing* to the anxious and fretful boy in his home." 

"Well, he's good at that. Former Captain and all." 

"Yes, I see this thing. He is normally more... exuberant?" 

"Less exuberant than *wild*. He tamps himself down for court, and so does Mum, but it's an *effort*." 

"He is — he has been tamping himself down for *me*." 

"Well, no. Calming down excitable boys comes naturally to him for *a lot of reasons*," Porthos says, and laughs hard. 

Aramis *coughs* — 

Blushes — 

"I had *forgotten* for a moment!" 

Porthos grins and strokes his cheeks, nice and firmly. "Mum will remind you." 

"Yes, she — *she* has not been calm. *She* has been wild." 

"That's her." 

"And Odile is more like them, perhaps, than you or Lucien or Jeannette?" 

"Yeah, I'd say so," Porthos says, and grins wider. "She *really* likes you. Even more than the rest of the pack likes you." 

Aramis scents fill with sweet, surprised pleasure. "Yes? Why is this?" 

"You understand each other. You take her as she *comes*. You don't *flinch* from her." 

"I would *never* —" 

"I know," Porthos says. "You make me so proud to know you..." 

Aramis blushes again. "My Porthos wishes me to look like a beet." 

"Your Porthos is in love with you. *Always*." 

"Mm —" Aramis pushes close again and squeezes *tight* — 

"Oh, that's bloody *wonderful*."

"*Good*. Tell me — tell me how you are more like Lucien and Jeannette! I would not have guessed this right away!" 

Porthos rumbles and licks Aramis's temples — 

And his ears — 

"Lucien is serious, and responsible. Always gets his work done, never backs out of a job. He's not one for messing about even when he *does* have all his work done, but...?" 

"I... this does not sound very much like a — no. No." 

"Mm?" 

"It sounds like a very particular *kind* of dog."

"That's right —" 

"The kind of dog — perhaps a guard dog? Or... no. *You* are a guard dog." 

"More or less. But Lucien, despite not having a martial bone in his body, has just as much *sentinel* in him as I do. He's the watcher, eh? He'll *always* care for this pack, and *one* of the reasons why he works so hard is that he's teaching himself how to *advance* us." 

"*Oh*. He would like to gain the de Tréville name greater power and status?" 

"And *security*, precious. And that makes *perfect* sense to me." 

Aramis makes a satisfied sound and wriggles closer still — 

Porthos rumbles and squeezes him, kisses him — 

Licks and licks — 

Rumbles more — 

"Oh, yes, yes, my Porthos, but tell me of *Jeannette*. How is *she* like you?" 

Porthos laughs quietly — 

"Tell me!" 

"I know Uncle Laurent told you about my uh... love of fine things..." 

"Yes, and you have decorated your rooms *well* —" 

"Thank you —" 

"I can tell this now that I can *look* at something other than your beautiful *body* —"

Porthos growls and nips Aramis's ear — 

"Ah! No? That was wrong?" 

"Absolutely *not*, precious. Sometimes. Sometimes I just need to bite you a little." 

"*Oh*..." 

"But if *you* don't like it —" 

"Bite me all the *time*!" 

"Oh, fuck, don't get me hard again," Porthos says, and they laugh together — 

They laugh *together* — 

It's all Porthos can do not to strip Aramis down right here and — everything. 

Absolutely everything. 

He presses his nose to Aramis's throat, instead, and breathes. Just breathes. 

"Oh, my Porthos..." 

"Mm?" 

"What are you thinking?" 

"Taking all your clothes off and rolling around with you." 

"Rolling... around...?" 

"I'm feeling somewhat literal about that. Somewhat," Porthos says, and laughs more — 

Aramis giggles. "Only somewhat?" 

"Shh. Let's talk about... other things. Let me have you like *this* for a little bit longer, eh?" 

"You are greedy for your Aramis in all ways?" 

"*Fuck*, yes." 

*Aramis* growls — and turns to kiss his cheek over and over again. 

"Oh, precious..." 

"Tell me more of Jeannette!" 

"We both like *fine* things, precious. She's more of a patron of the arts than I could *ever* be — that's one of the ways she and Thomas first fell in love — and she really has her finger on the *pulse* of the salon scene, too, but... well. I *love* what comes *out* of the artists she patronizes. Silks and jewels, gold and objets d'art —" 

"Truly?" 

"*Oh*, yes. And I really hope you do, too, because I've ordered some disgustingly fancy things for you —" 

"*Porthos*!" 

"Hmm...?" 

"You did not know — you do not — you did not know you would *like* me, much less *love* me." 

Porthos pulls back. And *looks* at Aramis. 

Aramis blushes. "I — you did not know I would — would care for you!"

"That's true —" 

"Did you think to *buy* my affections? Hm?" 

"Absolutely not. Would that work?" 

"*Porthos* —" 

Porthos laughs hard. "I'm joking, precious, only joking. I just... I was looking at you through one of Jason's portals, before I walked through... looking at the fine bones of your *face*..." Porthos licks his lips and grins at his boy. "A part of me was *already* adorning you." 

And Aramis looks at the rings on Porthos's fingers — 

Touches them — 

Touches his bracelets... 

"Ask anything, little precious. Ask *everything*." 

"You do not adorn your Athos," Aramis says, and doesn't — quite — look up. 

Porthos tilts his chin up himself. "I've thought about it. *Lots* of times. I love adorning the people I love." 

"He does not let you?" 

"He's more like his father, that way. His *weapons* are beautiful, but he keeps *himself*... practical." 

Aramis frowns, scents getting a little prickly... and then smoothing out, just that fast. 

"Aramis?" 

"I was thinking that if he loved you, he would *let* you adorn him." 

"I —" 

"And then I thought of all the things, all the many things, Athos said to me tonight... about how much the two of you needed someone like me." And Aramis is blushing deeply — 

Panting — 

Looking deep into Porthos's *eyes*, and — 

"Not someone *like* you, precious love. *You*. Just you." 

"Oh, my Porthos —" 

"My Aramis. We've been dreaming about you since we were boys," Porthos says, and he can't keep the hunger out of his voice. *That* hunger. 

"Do you want to *share* me with — with your Athos?"

"Yeah. I do," Porthos says, and licks his lips. "Ask me more questions." 

"Will you..." And Aramis is panting again — 

*Swallowing* — 

His pulse is rabbiting in his *throat* — 

"Or we can change the —" 

"Will you be as *patient* about this thing as you have been about —" 

"*Yes*." 

"Will *Athos*." 

"*Yes*. We're grown men, precious. We're not going to lose control." 

"I have seen *many* grown men lose their controls —" 

"They weren't really men, precious. They weren't really *people*, as far as I'm concerned. Ask more questions. And then, maybe, we can talk about your experience." And Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis *flushes* — "I... you are..."

"Mm? No, wait. Wait just a moment." 

Aramis blinks — and nods. 

Porthos licks his lips and — he's going to get this *right*. "My wanting to share you... that's not going to be an everyday thing. An *everyone* thing." 

Aramis stares into him. "No?" 

"No, precious. Athos... he's my pack. He's my *brother*. He's the closest thing I have to a *litter* mate —" 

"*Oh*. He is... special." 

"That's right. We've been inseparable from the very beginning. We know everything about each other, and about each other's *needs*. And what that boils down to for *this*? Is that I know he would never, *ever* do *anything* that made you feel bad. That made you feel *wrong*." 

"He has... helped you with me." 

"Exactly, and —" 

"What do you want to — is there any act you would hold *back* from Athos? Is there anything you would wish for only the two of *us*." 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles. "Haven't thought about that. But I think you have." 

"Tell me!" 

"I *haven't* thought about it, precious — and I don't have preferences. Except one." 

"What is it!" 

"If *you* want us to hold something back? Then I *absolutely* want to hold that thing back." 

"Oh. This is so?" 

Porthos nods once. "I need you, precious. I need you to be *mine* — and I need you to *feel* mine," he says, and raises his eyebrows. "That *is* what we're talking about, isn't it?" 

Aramis smiles like a new *day* — 

Snuggles in *close* — 

"My Porthos is wise, *good*, good to his *Aramis*." 

"My Aramis knows just how to talk to his Porthos —" 

And Aramis — purrs. 

It's the hottest bloody thing — 

Porthos rumbles and *squeezes* — 

Licks and licks and *licks* that ear — 

"Oh, *Porthos* —" 

"You're so *delicious*." 

Aramis *moans*. "I — I don't want to hold *anything* back from you!"

"But you need it. You need something to be just for us. Just for our *mating*." 

Aramis makes a *garbled* noise and *crushes* his body to Porthos's own. "I do not know what it *is*! I do not — I *care* for Athos!" 

"He *loves* you." 

"Oh — no!" 

"Yes. He didn't tell you this, himself, because he didn't want to be 'grasping', but he *doesn't* get attracted to *anyone* until he loves them." 

"He does not — we have just met!" 

"And you made one *hell* of an impression, little precious," Porthos says, and laughs — 

And licks more — 

"But tell me. Tell me everything." 

Aramis moans more. "I want — I want to give *him*... things." 

"Do you, now..." 

"Oh. Oh. Is this well? I do not have to!" 

Porthos growls and strokes down to Aramis's slim hips, squeezing hard. "No, you don't. But I *want* you to. Whenever you *can*. Whenever you *want* to." 

"Oh, Porthos — my *Porthos*. Perhaps..." 

"Mm?" And Porthos sucks Aramis's earlobe. 

Aramis shudders and *clutches*. "Perhaps... perhaps you will only do some things with Athos... when we are all together?" 

Porthos rumbles with pleasure and *pride*.

"And — and — you can — whenever you wish —" 

"My boy..." 

"I am *yours*. I am — you are — anyone would *choose* you —" 

"Anyone would choose *you*, precious. And we can *absolutely* do things that way, with Athos and me only performing some acts when you're *right* there to see — and *help*." 

And Aramis is *moving* against him — 

*Groaning* — 

"He is so — so *beautiful* —"

(I really can't promise to be patient,) Athos says. 

Yes, you bloody can!

Athos laughs meanly and pulls back *slowly*. 

"Mm — Porthos? Porthos, where did you *go*?" 

Porthos kisses Aramis's temple, letting his lips linger there for just a moment. 

"My Porthos —" 

"Your Porthos was getting teased by his Athos." 

"*Oh*. What did he say?" 

Porthos pulls back — and *pushes* Aramis back so he can't ride Porthos's stiffening *cock* anymore — 

Aramis makes a mournful sound — 

"He was teasing about not being able to be patient with you."

Aramis's eyes widen. 

"*Only* teasing, precious. He'd no more rush you *this* way than he'd rush your *training*."

Aramis — takes a breath. And nods. And *winces* — 

"Hey, what's that about?" 

"I — I was teasing *you*, arousing you —" 

Porthos presses his thumb to Aramis's mouth. "None of that. You got a little overcome. It *wasn't* too much for me, and even if it had been, all I would have done is ask you to leave me for a little while." 

Aramis flushes more deeply. "My Porthos is — is —" Aramis shakes his head. "I need... to be reassured. That you truly — that you will enjoy me." And Aramis lowers his head.

"Oh, precious," Porthos says, cupping Aramis's face with both hands and leaning in close enough to breathe his breath. "All you would've had to do is reach down and *squeeze* me with your tough little hands to *make* it too much for me. Not even. You'd just have to tell me you *needed* me. That you *hurt* with it. That you needed me to ease the *pain*. That you needed to be mine. That you needed me to *make* you mine. Any of that would be..." Porthos laughs. "Well. *Don't* say it, yet. Please."

And Aramis's eyes are wide and shining, wide and *full*. "Yes. Yes, Porthos."

"Now let me hold you a little longer before bed. I need to be *covered* with your scents before I go to bed." 

"Oh, *yes*!" 

Good boy.

Such — 

Such a perfect boy.


	8. It's good to have options.

Porthos's training is perfect, wonderful, so *right*!

Aramis feels himself learning so *quickly*!

Unfortunately, he also feels other things. 

Like the need to masturbate *constantly*. 

After the third 'pause' of the day, he is pondering the nature of sin the way he simply hasn't for this act since he saw Father Michel's *eyes* after he had caned Aramis for spending in his nightclothes — 

Well. 

Father Michel had died in pain, thanks to Porthos.

Aramis is merely... uncomfortable. 

And, when he returns to the training ground, Porthos is with Athos. 

His nostrils are flaring constantly, but his hungry smile is also rueful. 

"My Porthos? What is it?" 

Porthos rumbles and his smile gets softer *and* hungrier — 

Aramis cannot help but move *closer* — 

But Porthos grips his shoulders and holds him *back*. "Not yet, little precious," he says, in a quiet voice. "Not yet." 

"I — we are in the wrong place. I — I am sorry." And Aramis flushes.

Porthos rumbles more. "It's all right. It —" 

"Porthos would *very* much like you to know that he's moments away from pouncing on you, pinning you to the ground, and licking every inch of your body," Athos says, with a grin. 

"*Athos* —" 

"Why did he — why did *you* not say this to me?" And Aramis glares at Porthos. "Why have you not *bitten* me?" 

Porthos looks *panicked* — 

He is *gripping* Aramis's shoulders — 

It's almost *painful* — 

Athos clears his throat. 

Aramis glares at *him* — 

Athos *coughs* — but says, "He is worried — understandably, I believe — about the control both of you will be able to show if your thoughts and feelings are entirely clear to each other at all times." 

Aramis blinks — "I... will never be able to *hide* my thoughts?" 

"You *will*," Porthos says firmly. "I'll teach you how — we'll *all* teach you. But it takes practice, and it's much harder to do when you're losing control in... other ways," he says, and licks his lips — 

And flares his nostrils again — 

And Aramis realizes that he *likes* Porthos's hands on his shoulders — 

That he likes the firmness of Porthos's *grip* — 

That it could be even *harder* if he asked for it...

"Oh... precious..." And Porthos's hands *flex* on Aramis's shoulders, almost as if he can *already* sense what Aramis is thinking — 

Aramis *moans* — 

"Fuck —" 

Athos clears his throat again. 

"*What*!" 

Athos hums. "I'm here to take over your training for the day, Aramis." 

"I — oh."

Porthos blushes — and smiles ruefully. "I *was* going to ask if that was all right with you."

"I..." 

Athos hums. "Unless, of course, you *are* ready to go home with Porthos and —" 

"*Athos*." 

Aramis — breathes. Just... breathes. 

Athos winks at Aramis. "You'll forgive me, both of you. I am, in my way, *precisely* as excitable as you both are." 

Oh. Aramis lets himself *look* at Athos — 

Lets himself *study* — 

And... yes. 

Even though he is not trying to touch, even though he is keeping his distance, there is a certain tension in him... and his blue eyes are bright and *wild*. 

Aramis nods and licks his lips. "I see this thing." 

Athos smiles — hotly. "I am pleased to be known by you, Aramis." 

"I —" 

This time, Porthos *does* grip hard enough to cause pain. And — he growls.

Aramis inhales sharply and turns to Porthos *immediately*. "Yes, my Porthos? I apologize —"

"Shh, shh. You did nothing wrong," he says, wincing and *slowly* easing his grip. 

"You need not —" 

"Shh. I do. I do," Porthos says, and smiles at him wryly. "My controls are slipping, little precious." 

"Oh. Oh..." 

"Yeah. You feel it. I know you do." 

"It — our bodies will not let us deny ourselves for much longer." 

Porthos's smile is pained, and he *strokes* Aramis's shoulders. "I'm sorry about that, precious. I promise —" 

"No — no. I *told* you to only apologize when *I* told you to." 

Porthos breathes deep — "That you did. I'm sorry for breaking the rules," he says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis nods once. "You..." He licks his lips. "We will lose control immediately if you bite me?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, we will. I — am not going to apologize again." 

"*Good*. I... I wonder if I have another *option*." 

And Athos and Porthos are blinking at him. 

Aramis spreads his hands. "I *feel* things. I can come to understand *much* about a person using only *my* power," he says, and continues speaking quietly. "If there was a way to strengthen and direct my abilities —" 

"He needs —" 

"— to speak to Jason, yeah," Porthos says. "Right bloody now. Or." 

"Unless..." 

And they're both looking at him... hungrily. *Needily*. 

"Unless *what*?" 

Porthos licks his lips — 

"Unless," Athos says, "you would rather... wait?" 

"For — no. No, I would not rather *wait*," Aramis says, and glares at both of them. 

"Oh, thank you —" 

"Yes, thank you —" 

"*Oh*, yes, thank you *very* much," Jason *Blood* says, and he's walking to join them from the direction of the barracks — 

"Where the bloody hell did *you* come — no, never mind, I'm glad to see you," Porthos says, standing straight and releasing *one* of Aramis's shoulders. 

Blood grins. He's dressed in the clothes of a wealthy merchant today, with a rapier on his hip that seems... strange. "I've been monitoring events *closely*, Porthos. When mon grand began speaking of *options*... well. Let's just say I was *prepared*." 

Athos hums. "Of course you were. Give him *back*." 

"Mais bien sûr, Athos. When the time comes." 

Porthos *and* Athos growl — 

And Blood laughs *evilly*. "I believe mon grand will decide when he wishes to return to you both, will he not...?" 

Porthos and Athos *blink* —

Look to him *guiltily* — 

Aramis raises an eyebrow.

Athos licks his lips. 

Porthos coughs. "I. Uh. I'm waiting *patiently* for you to tell me to apologize, precious." 

Aramis raises his eyebrow higher. 

"Should I... not... wait?" And Athos's eyes are somewhat wide. 

This...

This is what Aramis wants — some of it. This *fun*, this *pleasure*, this — family, when he lets himself smile — 

When he lets himself *feel* all the comfort he *does* feel — 

When he lets himself give *in* to the *pleasure* of Porthos's and Athos's pleasure in *him*, and they smile — 

Move closer and touch, grip — 

"Oh, little precious, we'll give you *everything* —"

"Yes —"

"Give me — give me your *teaching*." 

"Right now, precious?"

"*I* am capable of that," Athos says, and cups his other shoulder. 

And it's tempting — of course it's tempting! He hasn't even had the chance to do any *shooting* today, and he *knows* his footwork is still incorrect, and — 

And tomorrow, Porthos will not be able to teach him, at all. 

Tomorrow, Porthos will *ache* for him too *badly* — 

And Aramis will have no control, at all. He knows this thing. 

He knows this thing just as well as he knows that these men will *let* him make that choice, let him — 

Let him choose to have no choice, at all, if that is what he wishes. 

Aramis does *not* wish that. 

Not for this. 

He stands straight, and pushes Athos's and Porthos's hands away from himself — 

He *squeezes* Porthos's big, wonderful hand because he must — 

"Oh, precious..." 

He squeezes Athos's hand, too, and takes Athos's *hot* look for — for his own. 

But. 

"I must learn from M'sieu Blood now, if that is well." 

Porthos flares his nostrils — and steps back. "It's just right, precious. I promise."

Athos steps back as well — 

And Blood inclines his head. "If you would come with me?" 

Aramis nods, and walks with Blood, watching closely how the other men watch them. 

They clearly know Blood well — *all* of the older men nod respectfully, and most of the younger men do, as well — but there is some degree of wariness in their faces, too. 

It... 

"I do not think your power is as accepted as... cleanly as Porthos's is," Aramis says quietly, after a time. 

"It is not," Blood says easily. "It never is, save by the rarest sorts of people, and I'll tell you precisely why. *All* of why." 

"Why?" 

Blood hums. "I truly do love your habit of asking questions like that — that's one of the reasons. I tended to ask the same *sort* of question when Treville and his pack insisted on *adopting* me," he says, and leads them into the shadows behind the barracks — 

Where there is a different shadow. 

One of Blood's *portals* — 

"Just a moment," Blood says, and — *shimmers* — 

And then he's wearing his wool and mail again, wearing his bastard *sword* again — 

"Oh — I did not notice your *clothes* being strange, but —" 

"You noticed the sword being... incorrect? I'm shocked," Blood says, and his voice is richly amused. "I'll teach you to *always* know when a mage is trying to trick you." 

Aramis blinks — 

Catches himself *about* to ask about Blood's *prices* again — 

But... 

But. 

"Ask anything, mon grand. I will *answer*." 

"Why are you... tell me why you *approve* of me." 

"Your love of learning would be entirely enough," Blood says, and folds his hands in front of himself. "I love to *teach*. I love to *end* *ignorance*. It is, truly, one of my *vocations*. But you are brilliant, acquisitive, curious, open-minded, intriguingly violent without being unkind..." Blood *waves* a hand. "All of these things appeal *highly*." 

"Do you wish to be my family, as well?" 

Blood smiles. "Yes." 

"You... have not been... present." 

"Mm. I haven't been all *over* you, you mean." 

"Yes." 

"That is not my way, mon grand. I tend to be... somewhat retiring, except when summoned in one way or another." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. "You have a curious definition of 'summoning'." 

Blood *grins* again. "I have my own *eagerness*, mon grand. You are a mage with no immediately available *teacher*. I'm rather champing at the bit... in my own way." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. "And you will not take away from my time —" With Porthos. "— here?"

"Your schedule would be rather full," Blood says, raising an eyebrow for Aramis's hesitation. 

"Yes, but —" 

"*But*..." Blood spreads his hands. "I do not sleep, mon grand. Ever. I —" 

Aramis opens his mouth — 

Blood *raises* a hand. "I — and the demon who shares my soul —" 

"I!" 

"— have far too many enemies to allow us to *sleep*. I can work around your schedule. *Tell* me your needs, and I will — ah, no. You worried you wouldn't have enough time with your *mate*, yes?" 

Aramis flushes — 

Thinks of Porthos's hands on him — 

*Gripping* him — 

"Mon grand. You would frankly be *useless* as a student if I *tried* to take you away from your mate when you needed to be with him." 

Aramis *glares* — 

But Blood only raises an eyebrow at him again. And *looks* at him. 

And Aramis... admits several things to himself. And sighs. 

"Yes...?" 

"Yes, M'sieu." 

"*Will* you be my student for more than... incidental things?"

And there is... a feeling to this moment. 

A *heaviness* to the *air* — 

A sense — of making a choice. Aramis stands straight. "Yes, M'sieu. I will." 

"Thank you *very* much," Blood says, and grins with a cheerful *rapaciousness*. "I promise to show you my worth each and every chance you allow it. Now, follow me. Remember —" 

"I will look only at your mail!" 

"*Just* so." 

"Will you teach me how to make such portals?" 

"*You* won't be able to do it, short of gaining the sort of shadow-magery *I* only gained through... well, that's a rather long story. Would you like it now?" 

Aramis considers as he stares at Jason's mail — 

And walks — 

And stares — 

And — 

"Tell me about the *demon*." 

"Well, that is *part* of the story, at least," Blood says, and they step out into... a sitting room. The fireplace is truly massive — and *blazing* despite it being summer — 

But. 

The sitting room is dark. 

Full of *shadows*. 

Eldritch shadows? 

It's also quite *cool* — not *cold*, but with the fire burning so hugely, it should be — 

"That fire is *entirely* magical in nature," Blood says, and gestures somewhat grandly — 

And the shadows seem to almost *peel* back, leaving the room much brighter, much more — 

*Oh* — 

"Lieutenant —" 

"Shh. All is well, Aramis," Lieutenant Reynard says, and smiles at Aramis warmly from where he was sitting in one of the *darkest* corners of the room. "I was only waiting for our Jason to return, mm?"

"I — as you say, sir."

Reynard laughs softly and musically — and is abruptly holding two blades in one hand. 

"Oh, how you *tempt*, Reynard," Blood says. "What *sort* of nastiness did you want for these...?" 

Reynard grins savagely — and licks his teeth. "Surprise me, mm? I have *intelligence* work to do for notre verrat." 

"*Do* be careful," Blood says, and pricks his finger with the tip of each blade. They gleam ominously for a moment before settling into their normal shine. "Oh, what am I saying? Do be *vicious*." 

"That is more *like* it, frère," Reynard says, standing and tucking his blades away with an admirably smooth and fast motion. He *prowls* into Blood's space — 

It's clear how much taller he is, how rangy and powerful he *still* is, despite the fact that his long hair is mostly grey —

He smiles — 

He nuzzles and *nips* at Blood's lips — 

And then Blood growls like — 

Like something more inhuman than *anything* Aramis has seen thus far, like something — 

It sounds like the growl is coming from everywhere in the *room*!

And then Blood *takes* Reynard's mouth in a kiss, takes — 

Right in *front* of him — 

The *first* lieutenant, the eldest and most experienced — and, all agree, most *dangerous* — 

And he is crossing his hands behind his back — 

He is allowing Blood to grip his *wrists* — 

He is allowing Blood to *bite* down to his throat, to suck, to *mark* — 

He is smiling *beatifically* — 

And he does not *stop* smiling when Blood pulls back, when Blood fastens his collar to *cover* the marks — 

"Mm, yes, we must be *responsible* men," Reynard says, and his eyes are sparkling. 

"Or at least *look* like them. Sometimes," Blood says, and smiles happily, sweetly — there is colour in his pale cheeks. 

"I believe I can manage this! Sometimes." And Reynard turns to him. "Are you well, Aramis?" And the wicked light in Reynard's eyes says *much* about the *fact* that the man knows precisely what Aramis has been *goggling* about for the past few minutes. 

Aramis stands *straight*. "I *am*, sir. I had simply... not thought the *facts* of the older generation's relationships through to their logical conclusions." 

"Mm. *Quite*," Blood says. 

Reynard laughs raucously — and... somewhat madly. 

"Sir?" 

"*Neveu*. I am your *Uncle*. I will always *be* your Uncle — and so is Jason, and so is Laurent, and so is *Kitos*." 

"I..." 

"But still you are not ready for this...?" Reynard frowns. 

Aramis *winces* — 

And Blood reaches up to cup Reynard's shoulder. "He is here with me today to *make* himself ready for *many* things, brother." 

"Ah, oui?" Reynard grins again. "Then I will not *interrupt*," he says, and picks up his hat. "Listen well to our Jason, neveu. He will not lead you astray."

"I — yes, sir. May your mission go smoothly and easily." 

Reynard's grin turns savage once more. "If it does not, I will ease the way with our enemies' *blood*, neveu. As *ever*." 

Blood laughs softly. "*Seducer*." 

Reynard laughs musically again, and makes for the door. "Until we — all — meet again!" 

And then he's gone, and Blood is gesturing to a table by the strangely-cool fire. 

Aramis nods, sits — 

Jason sits, as well. "About the demon, yes...?" 

And then Aramis takes a breath he *chokes* on, because — 

Because — 

"*Yes*!" 

"Yes, Reynard is rather *distracting*, isn't he?" Blood laughs. "The demon's name is Etrigan. A former lover of mine betrayed me in the interest of gaining power for herself. She intended to summon and enslave a powerful fire-demon — using my body and soul as the *grease*. She got as far as the summoning part, but Etrigan realized that if he actually *took* the offering of my body and soul, he *would* be enslaved to a powerful mage indefinitely. 

"So we made common cause." And Blood raises an eyebrow. 

"I. What did you do with *her*?" 

"We tore her apart and *ate* her, after a *lengthy* battle." 

"What... there is more to this story you are not sharing!" 

"There is. But I wish to answer your most *pressing* questions *first*, Aramis," Blood says, and folds his hands on the table. "If you tell me to simply speak as I will —" 

"Tell me — about my immortal *soul*!"

Blood raises an eyebrow. "So you *are* a Christian. Even after time spent in *that* school? Impressive." 

"*Answer*!" 

"There is nothing that is *truly* immortal, Aramis. Not the soul, not the gods, nothing —" 

"There is more than one — no, continue!" 

"There are *countless* gods. Humans — and other beings — tend to create them —" 

"*What* —" 

"— and feed them, and *strengthen* them via the fires of their *belief*. They're quite dangerous —" 

"But — tell me..." 

"Yes?" 

"Am. I. *Damned*." 

Blood grins. 

Grins *wide*. 

And then laughs *hard*. 

Aramis narrows his eyes.

And waits. 

Very patiently, he thinks. It has been nearly ten seconds — no. "M'sieu. Blood." 

"Oh, I — I'm terribly sorry about that, I —" He laughs more. 

Aramis *growls* — 

"Oh, dear, I'm ruining my good impression," Blood says, and coughs into his fist — 

Smoke swirls out from his mouth and reaches across the *table* for Aramis — 

And stops, right in front of Aramis's face, before making a love-knot in the air!

Aramis blinks as it dissipates — 

And Blood smiles. "There is no damnation. The god you're thinking about frankly does not *care* —" 

"You —" 

"The *demigod* I rather suspect *you* have more respect for? Has no true earthly power." 

Aramis — blanches. 

Blood pauses, and seems to be thinking about how best to proceed.

Aramis — 

Aramis tries to *think* — 

Tries to — no. "How do you *know* what you are speaking is *truth*?" 

"I have warred with gods. I have *spoken* with other gods. I have *visited* the place where gods like the one *you* — tried to — worship *dwell*." 

"Warred — tried to — *what*?" 

Blood nods once and steeples his long fingers. "Consider your own theology, Aramis. The god you tried to worship is supposed to be omniscient — and omnipresent and omnipotent, but these things aren't possible —" 

"But omniscience *is* possible?" 

"Yes. For the gods we *give* such power to. Unwisely," Blood says, and raises an eyebrow as if this portion of the lesson has *ended*, but — 

But. 

If Aramis allows the *possibility* that humanity had somehow — *somehow* — created gods, and allows for the reality of human fallibility and the *perfection* of gods...

"Only love would allow a god to remain with — humanity." He cannot say 'His creators'.

Blood smiles. "Just so. Which is why your demigod is still hanging about, doing his *best* for humanity, even as the churches which are nominally his own do *their* best to corrupt and destroy his teachings, thus weakening him to the point of irrelevancy." And he raises his eyebrow again — in question this time. 

Aramis — winces. "I... I know that the Church does not teach the *Christ's* words. I know that the Church teaches the *opposite* — but the reformers are no better in some ways!" 

"I never said they were, mon grand. *I* am not a Christian in *any* way." 

"I — oh. You are... a heretic?" 

"I worship no gods, at all. It is, as I've said, a dangerous business. The god we all *live* on — the earth, the *All*-Mother — has earned my respect and *some* degree of my allegiance, and so I give it to her. The rest? I do my best to *avoid*. I *highly* recommend you do the same." 

Aramis flushes. "Is this a command?" 

"No, mon grand," Blood says, and smiles again. This time, it is old on his face. "What it is... well. The gods have taken much from me over the centuries of my existence. I wish to protect you from that — and to protect *me* and everyone I love from *your* loss." 

Aramis — stops. 

Thinks — 

"The gods kill." 

"The smiting can be — and often is — quite literal." 

"And yet you war on them." 

"Often *because* of the literal smiting." 

"You are... very powerful?" 

"Not all gods are given quite as *many* gifts by their followers as the Christian god was given, mon grand, but... yes. The All-Mother could crush me with an infinitesimal *fraction* of the effort Kitos would use to crush a *gnat*, but she... is something else altogether." 

"She is — Porthos's goddess. This *pack's* goddess." 

"Just so. And Porthos is especially dutiful. She looks with favour upon him. I *firmly* believe it was only her desire that he father children for her that kept her from retrieving you for him herself." 

Aramis blinks — 

Swallows — 

Suddenly his heart is in his *throat* — 

"As an *aside*, the All-Mother is an *exceedingly* loving goddess. She will not be *angered* by Porthos taking you as a mate. She could never be angered by the happiness of her children." 

"I — but I am *not* her —" 

"Every living being on the *planet* — save one — is her child, mon grand. Some people are simply *more* her child than others. As Treville is wont to put it: Motherhood is what she *does*." 

The urge to look down is powerful — fierce!

He does not do it. 

He does not — 

"Yes, mon grand?" 

"I... *how* does Porthos pray to... Her?" 

Blood hums. "Already ready to give your devotions to another god, Aramis...? Well, I suppose it *is* a hard habit to break." 

"I —" 

"He *communes* with her, mon grand. He opens himself — his *soul* — to her, and tells her, in one way or another, that he's ready to spend time with her. And then she swallows him into the earth, in a comfortable little pocket, and renews his powers and gives him information she feels he needs while she *takes* information — and essence — from him." 

Aramis — raises an eyebrow. 

"Hmm, yes, that *was* rather euphemistic. Terribly sorry. To, again, quote Treville: 'She fucks us. She *reams* us. She makes us spend ourselves *mindless* — and She takes every drop. Apparently to fertilize *Herself*. I try not to think about it.' There. Was that better?" 

Aramis... is staring. 

Aramis is trying very hard to...

But isn't it said that nuns are married to the Christ?

That — 

But it was only Saul of Tarsus — who was not even a true Apostle! — who preached the importance of celibacy in the scripture — 

But...

Aramis frowns. 

And... 

Aramis frowns deeply. Very — very deeply. 

"Shall we work on your ability to look within the minds and hearts of those you wish to know?" 

Aramis frowns *more* —

"Or would you like to spend more time deciding whether or not to be jealous of a *goddess*." 

"He is *mine*!" 

"Glad to hear it," Blood says, and grins. "You won't be able to *commune* with the All-Mother, as you are not earth, but you *will* be able to *communicate* with her. Do so. At *length*." 

"I —" 

"Let *her* salve your fears, as well." 

"I am *not* —" He stops.

He flushes. 

He cannot lie. He nods, instead, and breathes. 

"And, yes, do that, mon grand. You'll need to be calm for *these* lessons." 

*Magic* lessons — 

Aramis nods again and breathes — 

And breathes — 

And thinks of Josette, and her scents of herbs and freshly-turned earth — 

Are all these lessons about the gods things she would have understood implicitly? 

Things she would've tried to teach him herself, if she had had time before he was sent away?

"Will you tell me what has made you sad?" 

"I do not think *that* was on my face, M'sieu Blood." 

"No, it wasn't, but... having Etrigan as a guest has strengthened my senses to a certain extent. They aren't nearly as powerful as a shifter's, though." 

"You have many weapons." 

"I plan to give you as many as *possible*," Blood says, and grins again. 

It occurs to Aramis that his grins are... not youthful. They, of course, should *not* be, but...

They do not match his face. 

Blood *looks* no older than a man in his late twenties or early thirties, but this is only the physical. His *eyes* are old. His *expressions* are... ancient. 

And this... 

This has been allowing Aramis to allow *him*... much. 

He nods to himself. 

"Yes...?" 

"I was making an observation about your age." 

"Mm. I've been told I carry it —" 

"In your eyes? Your expressions?" 

"Just so, mon grand. You'd be amazed just how many people still manage to *miss* it — no. I daresay *you* wouldn't be amazed, at all." 

"*Most* people are *fools*." 

Blood inclines his head. "And your sadness?" 

"I had a teacher, on my sphere. Josette. She is a hedge-witch. She taught me what control I have over my abilities —" 

"And *that* explains the mystery. Do go on." 

"You... were wondering about my control?" 

"*Very* much so. Many of the Aramises I spied on before I found you either had no magery whatsoever... or had *lost* control rather spectacularly when they were just about your age." 

Aramis blinks — "How spectacularly?" 

"Does the name Jean-Pierre ring any bells, mon grand?" 

Aramis flushes — and growls. "Yes." 

Jason nods once. "You punish him on other spheres. *Brutally*." 

"You... are not speaking of the *physical* punishment I gave him on my own sphere." 

"No, I am not."

"You..." Aramis swallows. "What do I do." 

"Generally? Drop him into a *pit* of his own nightmares — and nightmares you think up *for* him." 

"*Fuck* — I." 

"You thought about it." 

"It — it was not a *thought* —" 

"It was instinct. It was... practically on the tip of your tongue...?" 

"*Yes*, but — Josette taught me to *control* myself. To keep myself from — from *slipping* that way, so that I would not be *caught*." 

"Very good. How *were* you caught?" 

Aramis frowns. "I was being 'disciplined' for my heresy again. They used the whip for such things. They were more brutal, that time, because I had *also* corrected two of the Fathers on their incorrect reading of the scriptures in class that day." 

"Oh... dear. You *lost* your control." 

"Yes. I meant to only do it in a small way, to make Father Ambrose think he had lost his sight —" 

Blood coughs — 

"— but I was weakened, and distracted, and I did not realize that Father Theodorus had come to *watch* my punishment, as he sometimes chose to do. He raised the alarm. They beat me down, and locked me in the dungeon." 

"Mm, well. I am *very* glad you were being 'educated' by such a remarkably *indecisive* pack of child abusers." 

"They were talking of bringing in an Inquisitor for me." 

"Oh, murdering boggarts. *Those* pillocks." Blood makes a face and *looks* at him. "I trust I do not *need* to tell you all of the *many* reasons I hold the Catholic church in the *lowest* possible esteem?" 

"M'sieu..." 

"I *do*?" 

"No, no, but... I do not quite know how to think of myself... without a church." 

Blood blinks. "Even though you were raised in a *brothel*?" 

Aramis winces. "My mother, she would be disappointed in me for becoming so... so. But the words of the Christ spoke to me very deeply when I read them, M'sieu. I have *only* read them in Latin and Spanish thus far — I have not been able to get my *hands* on a Greek or —" 

Blood pulls a *book* out of *nothing* — and places it in front of Aramis. 

"I..." 

"How much Greek do you read...?" 

"All of it!" 

Jason grins. "Enjoy your new bible with my compliments. There'll be other books in — Latin, Spanish, Greek... what other languages do you read, mon grand?" 

"Ah, only French and German. And I do not *write* very well in Greek." 

"I — or Thomas, or Jeannette, or Lucien — will teach you, whenever you wish. Various members of the extended family can also teach you *English*, as you've probably guessed, as well as Portuguese, Arabic, Hungarian, and assorted demon languages." 

"You." 

"And just a moment," Blood says, and pushes *both* hands into nothing, and seems to... rummage. 

"Are you searching for something?" 

"Yes, my *German* vernacular bible isn't with the others, because it's not as *accurate*." 

"It *isn't*?" 

"Not at all, mon grand. Luther rather liked *correcting* things to suit his beliefs." 

"No!" 

"We all write in the margins in our own ways —" 

"But we must not claim to have *not* done so!" 

"I absolutely agree — oh, here we are," Blood says, and tugs out the book. "I recommend reading side-by-side with the Greek —" 

"Yes! I will! Thank you very *much*, M'sieu!" 

"You're quite welcome. I promise to absolutely *shower* you with holy books —" 

"*Oh* —" 

"— if *you'll* promise not to go about *believing* in any of them too strenuously." 

"I..." 

Blood laughs richly. "We'll just revisit that *later*, shall we?" 

Aramis nods firmly. 

"Good. Now, we've established that an overabundance of pain makes you lose your control. What else does?"

"I come *close* to losing my control for strong emotion. I believe it is possible that I *will* lose my control for strong emotion someday, if I am not very careful!" 

"With that attitude? We have an *excellent* chance of preventing that." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

Blood spreads his hands. "Observable phenomena, mon grand. Of the students I've trained — and whom associates of mine have trained — it is *always* the ones who can *admit* to their difficulties with emotion who are most easily trained away *from* those difficulties." 

And that... makes sense. He nods. "More, please." 

"Of course," Blood says, and does — something. 

Something *unpleasant*. 

Aramis draws back *helplessly* — 

Blood holds up a hand. "Think about why you need to be away from me right this moment." 

"I don't — I cannot tell —" 

"You can. Look closely." 

Aramis breathes — 

He feels as though he's in the room with — 

With some unknown, unknowable *beast* — 

With some — but. 

That's it. 

Blood *feels* unknowable right now, feels — 

There is a blank *space* where the man should be, where everything the man *is* should be. Where his *ancientness* should be, where his *power* should be — 

And Aramis realizes that he can't help but *know* that he is in the room with someone dangerous, that his own instincts will not fail him so *badly*, but the fact that Blood is — "You are hiding from me. You are... blocking me? Somehow?" 

"Very good —" 

"Please *stop*." 

Blood grins. "Make me." 

"I — what?" 

"Make me do it. Show me how you would go *about* making me do it, mon grand... and I will show *you* how to do it —" 

Aramis *reaches* with all of his power — 

"— better. Oh, dear, no, no, not that," Blood says, and — pushes. 

Somehow. 

Aramis feels himself and his power being *placed* back in one general space. 

"What —" 

"Let's try that again, shall we? This time, *without* you making your entire soul and *self* vulnerable. When you wish to pluck information from a source — any source — you must *touch* them with your power. You must not *give* them your power." And Blood raises an eyebrow. 

Aramis — thinks about that. 

Aramis does his *best* to think about that while his *skin* continues to crawl because he can't *feel* Blood *properly* — but. He recognizes this teaching method. 

Blood is testing him in more than one way. 

Aramis tests well. 

So. He *holds* to his power — no. *That* shoved it *down*. 

He *holds* his power. He pictures it on his hip, like a pistol. Ready to hand. 

He imagines pulling it — 

Aiming — 

Shooting. 

Just one thing. 

One little — 

"Very, very good," Blood says, and smiles again. 

"But I still cannot *feel* you!" 

"You *touched* me without *taking*." 

"*Oh*." Aramis seeks for the remnants of his power on Blood, the remnants that will *allow* him to take — *there*. He *yanks* — 

And feels himself being *enclosed* in something hot, smooth, and impossibly *dark*. 

"I — I —" 

"Subtly, mon grand. *Subtly*. You must not let the mages you're seeking to mine for information *know* that you're mining them." 

"... oh."

And Blood releases him — 

Aramis blinks in the light, for the ability to breathe *deeply* — 

"Again. *Quickly*." 

Aramis grunts — 

Shoots — 

Takes *gently* — 

And Blood grins just as savagely as Reynard had. "Perfect." 

"I." Aramis licks his lips and tries not to sweat *copiously*. "I can guess that the individual who is actually on *fire* is Etrigan, but who is the *other*?" 

Blood grins even more broadly — 

So do Etrigan and the other *being* — 

Etrigan is nine feet *tall* — 

The other being has a mouth full of *needles* and a *mane* — 

"He has no name, mon grand — none that he has chosen to share with either Etrigan or me. He does not *speak* with us. He came into being through the *warring* Etrigan and I did on one another in the years and *decades* after our souls were first bound, through the immense amount of *power* we were throwing about. He allows me to *use* his power — hence the portals, the stronger glamours, et cetera — and, at times, his *form*... but that is as close as we have come to truly knowing him. 

"*He* is the being on this planet who is *not* the child of the All-Mother, and he is one of the *primary* reasons why my power — and my *self* — are not accepted as freely as some." 

"Oh. Yes?" And Aramis stands and bows to both Etrigan and the shadow-creature. 

They incline their heads as one. 

Aramis sits again — 

And Blood gives him an admiring look. "As an aside... what you just learned will allow you to know *anything* you'd like to know about Porthos and Athos." 

"But... I do not see your thoughts!" 

"*That* is rather beyond your power without the sharing of blood... but you can *feel* me, can't you? You can *know* me." 

Aramis — licks his lips. And *considers* what he can feel. 

Blood's age, yes. The weight of it is *immense* when he allows himself to examine it closely!

Blood's intellect and strength and *wisdom*, yes. His *openness* and openness to *Aramis*. His... trustworthiness. Aramis nods slowly — and reaches across the table to clasp Blood's forearm. "You are an *excellent* teacher, M'sieu Blood." 

Blood's smile *quirks* on his face as he stares at Aramis's hand. "Thank you *very* much, mon grand, but... we cannot touch." 

Aramis blinks. "Why not?"

Blood nods to the shadow-being. "You would feel him as a certain degree of indescribable *wrongness* to my touch. You would recoil *from* my touch." 

"No —" 

"You would *not* feel the wrongness — the *anathema* — as powerfully as an earth-mage would, but you *are* still the All-Mother's child. You would feel the shadow-creature's *alien* nature, and you would wish to be as *far* away from me as possible." 

"But — how — you were all but making *love* to Lieutenant Reynard!" 

"Very true. Because he — and everyone else in this pack — has consented to share blood with me. Has consented to let *me* bind them, and make them kin to me, so that they share... some of my curse." And he raises his eyebrow. 

He —

"M'sieu — no. No. *Jason*." 

"*Really*. Thank you *again*." 

"Yes? You do not wish for your student to call you something else?" 

"I wish for my students to call me *precisely* what makes them most comfortable." 

"So. I will call you Jason. And we will share blood." 

Jason blinks. "Aramis...?"

"You will not be a very good teacher if you can't ever *touch* me." 

"I can teach you much without —" 

"But not *everything*." And Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

"No, not everything. Still, mon grand, we have *time*." 

"I have taken *enough* time. After this? I am calling my mate *home*." 

"And sharing blood with him...?" 

"And sharing *everything* with him," Aramis says... and smiles wryly. "After I study him just a *little*." 

Jason grins. "I do love a prudent young person," he says, and tugs a blade out of nothingness. 

"Why not the blade on your hip?" 

"It's *nastily* cursed. I would never use it on an ally." 

"I see!" 

"One more time, Aramis —" 

"I am certain!" 

"So be it," Jason says, and slices Aramis's arm quite shallowly — and then *grips* Aramis's arm *hard* with both hands before *darting* in to suck. 

It's so surprising that Aramis doesn't notice, at first, that he's trying to yank himself back — 

That — that he's making a noise — 

That he's *embarrassing* himself — 

Jason sucks *hard* — 

The feeling is hot, yanking, crawling, all over him, all *over* him — 

And then. 

And then it is *only* hot, only — only suction and a sharp sting, sensuous and — 

And that is Jason's *tongue* — 

Aramis *shivers* — 

And then Jason pulls back — and sits, licking his blade thoroughly and hungrily. 

The wound on Aramis's arm is — not there. 

At *all*. 

The *sting* is still there, and there is still faint redness where Jason had sucked *around* the wound, but... 

But the sting is already fading, and so is the redness. Aramis nods. "When do I take *your* blood?" 

(You don't, mon grand.) 

Aramis *grunts* — 

And then Jason sets the — gleaming — blade down and winks at him. (Unless you *want* to.) 

I! How do you how do I teach me how to speak!

(You're already doing it —) 

But more better more clear!

(The answer is nearly always the same with *any* sort of magery, mon grand: Control.) 

Aramis inhales — 

*Tamps* down his excitement — 

His need — 

His need to know everything possible about this new thing right *now* — 

And Jason's laughter in his mind is, if anything, even older than the laughter he allows out in the world. 

(So I've been told. Try again.) 

I...

(Yes?) 

Are you — keeping the rest of the family back? Do they know do they know — no. Do they know I am bound?

(They know you are bound to *me*. You will still need one of them to bite you in order for the link to the rest of the pack to be completed.) 

And that is... disappointing. *And* correct. 

(Yes, both of those, I daresay,) Jason says, smiling wryly. "Now. Is there anything else I can be of assistance with before you, Porthos, and Athos disappear from public view for a few days...?" 

Oh...

And Aramis lets himself think about it for the first time — 

Lets himself think about Porthos *sharing* him — 

Offering him to his *brother* — 

Offering to share his — his *wealth* — 

Jason hums. "You *may* wish to save those thoughts for a *slightly* more private moment...?" 

"Grk — *I* — I apologize!" 

Jason laughs hard. "These things take *time* to grow accustomed to, mon grand... and you weren't imagining anything I haven't seen or experienced for myself." 

Aramis lets himself think about — 

About the older generation's *relationships* — 

He *hasn't* — 

Not *enough*. It was too strange, too *much* — but shouldn't he consider it? Shouldn't he try to work out where all the adults *fit*? 

What exactly *is* the *hierarchy*? 

"I'll answer *those* questions, too, but...?" 

"But *what*?" 

"Are they the questions you wish to ask?" 

No. 

Jason inclines his head. And then waits patiently, so *patiently* — 

Aramis takes a *breath* — and the question is right there. "You spoke of being *adopted* by this pack." 

"Oh, yes. Entirely against my will — or so I would've claimed, at first." 

"*That*. How — how do you live with it? How do you get them all to see *reason*?" 

"Oh, mon grand. They're all *mad*. You've known this from the very *first* night. The mad do what they will do, and there is *nothing* anyone can do to stop them." 

"I —" 

"*But*," Jason says, and raises two fingers. "I have spent the happiest years of my existence among the mad, mon grand, and you will, too, if you are wise. The mad — when they are like *this* — will give you everything of themselves for no currency but *that which you can give of yourself*. And they will do it every day, and every night, for the rest of their *lives*. They will not ask you to be someone you're not. They will not ask you to lie, or pretend, or make yourself *small*. They will be, in short, *inhuman* —" 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"— and they will love you just that way. Take it for yourself, and keep it close. *Never* let it go."

Aramis licks his lips, and inclines his head. "Yes, Jason. I... will you take me back to my mate now?" 

Jason laughs again. "Where do you think we *are*?" And he gestures — 

The door opens —

And the hall *outside* the door is very clearly a part of the de Tréville *house*. 

*Somehow* — 

"I know; it rather feels *unearthly* in here after a while. *That* has more than a little to do with the shadow-creature, as well." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. He must study... so much more. But, for now, he stands — 

And reaches to clasp Jason's forearm — 

Jason stands, as well, and returns the gesture firmly and warmly. "*Enjoy* your mate — *and* your new older brother, when the time comes." 

"I *will*. And I will return... as soon as I can," Aramis says, and offers his own wry smile. 

They both know he will not be tearing himself from Porthos's side very easily.


	9. Keep that lead on, Porthos.

It had been an *experience* to go to his Uncle Kitos to ask for leave today — 

("Are you finally going to mate that boy?" 

"*Shit*. I —" 

"Because let's face it, lad, you're a walking cock and bollocks —" 

"Don't you — didn't you have to stop *talking* like that when they made you gentry —" 

"Fuck, no!" 

"I.")

And Uncle Kitos had glared at him. Beetled his brows and everything. *But* — 

("I bloody know you don't talk that way to *Louis* —" 

"Aw, shit, the poor bastard would faint. I have to watch my mouth all the bloody time. And being the Captain —") 

Uncle Kitos had growled and pushed a big, hairy paw back through his hair, mussing it for a moment — 

And then he'd growled again, shaken himself back to neatness, and leaned back in his massive chair. 

("Enough of that. You don't need to hear my griping. *Are* you going to mate Aramis?" 

"I — think so." 

"You *think* so?" 

"He's talking to Jason. Getting some tips on how to use *his* power to read me —" 

"— since you can't bite him without both of you losing your minds, got it, got it.") And Uncle Kitos had nodded thoughtfully, obviously searching his mind for helpful advice, but — 

("Look — *are* you all right, Uncle?"

"What — shit, don't listen to me grizzling, lad! I'm just upset because I'm stuck in this box all the bloody time — when I'm not stuck in the palaces trying to help Fearless and Laurent keep Louis from running France off the edge of a cliff. I miss mucking about as a real soldier, and I hate being an adult. You and Athos are doing *much* better with that than *we* did." 

"Thank you —"

"Don't lose control the *first* time. No matter *what* he says.") 

Porthos had blinked — 

("You know what I'm saying, lad. We all know Aramis is a wild one." 

"He's not — he's *not* reckless." 

"But he *is* inexperienced, in love with you, and completely incapable of holding on to *his* control,") Uncle Kitos had said, and lowered his chin. 

And Porthos had winced — 

*Realized* that a part of him was just — 

Just *devouring* his *boy* — 

Even more than making *love* to him — 

("Fuck — right — I'm sorry —"

"At ease. We remember this with Fearless *and* Amina. They were wild for each other in more or less the same ways at more or less the same *time*... but they could still get the wrong *kinds* of selfish." 

"And — hurt each other." 

"That's right, lad." 

"I — I remember these lessons. I *will* remember these lessons.") 

And Uncle Kitos had smiled at him, warm and bright and full. 

("I know you will. Get out of here — and send me Athos. I need to fill his plate with work while *his* mind is still functional.") 

And Porthos had done just that, and then — 

Gotten himself home. 

Paced his rooms. 

Paced and paced and — 

He's still pacing. 

He's still *dressed*, because he doesn't want to bloody assume *anything* and it's the middle of the *day* and — 

And. 

He's hungry. 

He's so hungry. 

He'd be — not satisfied, but *eased*, a little *eased*, if he could *hold* Aramis again, pull him close, sniff his hair — 

He knows Aramis had let Jason *bind* him, and that *must* mean — 

Porthos doesn't know what it means, other than that Aramis trusts him, that Aramis had *relaxed*, that Jason had *made* him relax *somehow* — 

Fuck, he *wants* that so fucking — 

And he's flaring his nostrils and growling before he thinks, before — 

Aramis is coming. 

Aramis is leaving Jason's *rooms*; he might not necessarily be — 

(Porthos. He *is* going to you.) 

Jason — 

(He's going to you to *read* you with his new-found control over his own powers and then have you fuck him senseless —) 

Porthos *barks* — 

(Indeed. Take a breath. Perhaps two or three?) 

I'll just... do that.

(Good.) 

(Thank you, lover.) 

(Yes, truly, old brother. We were about to step in ourselves, but *you* had better information.) 

(*Any* time,) Jason says, and he's *amused* — 

Oi — 

(Shut it and breathe, son.) 

Right.

He breathes. 

He breathes — and breathes in Aramis. 

So close and getting closer. 

So much — 

Porthos growls and strips off his gauntlets and gloves — 

Disarms himself *completely* — 

And *opens* the door before Aramis can knock. 

"*Porthos*!" 

"Precious. *Read* me," Porthos says, and grips the jamb with both hands —

And pants — 

And leaves himself open, utterly *open* — 

And he can feel it when Aramis touches him, when he — 

Fuck, he's all but *stroking* him with his power — 

So warm and — 

And *bright* — 

"I... I am supposed to be doing this in a way you *cannot* feel..." 

"It's all right, it's perfect, you *feel* perfect —" 

Aramis makes a small sound — "My Porthos, you are so..." 

"Tell me, tell me *please*. I'll make it *better*." 

"You are everything you've *said* you are! You are everything *everyone* has said you are!" 

Porthos whuffs out a breath — "I'll never *lie* to you —" 

"I can *feel* this — I can feel *everything* — oh, my Porthos, why are you *dressed*?" 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and *lifts* Aramis into his arms — 

"*Oh* —" 

Kicks the door *shut* — 

"Oh, yes, yes —" 

"Tell me... what you want," Porthos says, and walks them back to the bedroom. 

"Everything! All things!" 

"I —" And then he *panics*, because he remembers that he hasn't had the linens changed in — 

("Sweet boy. *Trust* your parents.)

*Fuck* — 

And now *Daddy* is laughing at him —

Snickering like a *boy* — 

Mum is *looking* at him — 

And the linens have been changed. 

*Porthos* can still smell all the tossing he's been doing lately, but maybe — 

"My Porthos? What is it? What's wrong?" 

Porthos *clutches* Aramis — 

"*Oof* —" 

"Need you. Need you so *much* —" 

"Yes — *yes* — and it smells so *good* in here, my Porthos —" 

"Oh, *fuck*. I thought — I thought my scents would be too *strong* —" 

"*Why*?" 

"Excellent question," Porthos says, and feels his parents pull back nice and far. 

He *puts* Aramis on the bed and strips himself down *fast*. 

"Oh, *Porthos*..." And Aramis's gaze on him is just — 

"Love the way you *look* at me, precious," Porthos says, and keeps stripping, keeps getting himself *bare* — 

"How do I look!" 

"Like I'm just what you want. Like I'm a *treat* you want to *wallow* in." 

"Oh. *Oh*. You look at *me* this way!" 

Porthos growls and *grips* himself through his slick breeches — 

Aramis makes a *hurt* noise and starts to get up — 

"Stay there. *Stay*." 

"Nnh — my Porthos —" 

"Unless. Do you need to move?" 

"No! I need you *here*." 

"Right, yeah, I — I just needed a little control, precious," Porthos says, and squeezes himself *harder* for a moment, *hurts* himself — 

"Porthos — *Porthos* —" 

"Almost. *Almost*." 

Aramis whimpers and *squirms* — 

He's *hard* under those trousers — 

And Porthos lets himself think, for a moment, while he's finishing the process of getting out of his clothes, that he hadn't even had to *tell* Aramis not to strip himself. 

That he hadn't even — 

He's growling again, moving, *petting* his boy, his beautiful — "You're such a good *boy*." 

"Yours! I am *yours*!" 

Porthos feels himself heating all over, feels himself going — not mad. Not mad. 

Just a little wild. 

He's all *right*, and he's stripping his *boy*. 

Right now. 

Shirt off, and stroke and pet and caress that lean chest. All the *muscle* that's already there. 

Grip his sides and *lift* him just because — 

"*Oh* — *yes* —" 

Porthos rumbles. "My *boy*." 

"Yes yes yes!" 

Lift him further onto the bed and get his boots off, his socks — 

And Porthos licks his feet, nibbles his toes — 

Aramis giggles and *squirms* — "My Porthos! You are *tickling*!" 

Porthos grins and thins his tongue — and then runs it *slowly* up the bottoms of Aramis's feet. 

"Ee — *Porthos*!" 

Porthos licks his chops. "I want everything with you, little precious. Everything that makes you *smile*." 

Aramis pants and *stares* at him — and then groans as his cock jerks under his trousers over and over again. 

"Were you reading me again, little precious? Did you feel my honesty?" 

"I — I — *please*!" 

"*Yes*," Porthos says, and gets rid of Aramis's trousers and breeches. 

He's careful with the breeches, not yanking them away from Aramis's sensitive cock and balls. He *peels* them back — 

Breathes and breathes and pants and — 

No, all the way off, all the way *off* — 

"Porthos — my Porthos, I am so *hard* —" 

"Do you know what you *want*." 

"Everything!" 

"Nothing specific for right now?" 

Aramis *whines* — 

And Porthos takes his cock *in*, all the way *in* — 

He can't stop himself — 

Aramis *screams* — 

Porthos croons and groans and — 

The scents — 

The *taste*. So musky-sweet-salty-*perfect*, *perfect*, and Porthos is sucking, slurping, lapping, slurping *more* — 

Aramis screams *again*, but — 

It's the most amateurish blow job he's given in *years*, and he can't — 

He can't *do* that to his *Aramis*. 

He *yanks* on his own lead until he can grip Aramis's hips instead of clawing desperately at the bedclothes — 

Until he can suckle *properly* — 

"Porthos — *Porthos*!" 

Porthos nods and *works* that cock, bobbing his head and *lashing* it with his tongue — 

Letting — 

Letting himself wallow *this* way — 

Aramis sobs and drums his *feet* — 

Pulls his knees up and *bucks* — 

Leaks all *over* Porthos's *mouth* — 

Fuck, yes, yes, the *taste* — 

Porthos pulls back enough to *stab* at Aramis's slit a little with his tongue — 

Aramis *gasps* — 

His scents *deepen*, sweeten *that* way — 

Porthos growls and takes his cock right. Back. *In*, squeezing and massaging with his lips — 

Clawing *carefully* at Aramis's *hips* — 

"Porthos — *Porthos*, I —" 

Porthos sucks *viciously* while squeezing *hard* with lips and hands — 

And Aramis wails for him. 

Wails like — like a child, like the most beautiful child, as he spurts and spurts — 

As he paints Porthos's mouth and the back of his throat — 

As he gives Porthos his perfect — 

Fuck, he's needed, he's bloody *needed*, and having it now is just making him harder, making him *ache*, making him — 

He can't stop sucking. 

He can't stop — 

But now he's *suckling* while Aramis moans low and whimpers high, keeping Aramis good and hard, keeping him needy — 

A *part* of him already knows that Aramis would have stayed hard *anyway*, but — 

He needs this. 

He needs Aramis's hands in his hair, finally in his *hair* — 

He needs Aramis petting and stroking him and moaning more, sweating on his (their) bed and spreading his *legs* — 

Offering himself. 

Offering himself *perfectly*. 

Porthos needs every bit of this. 

He pulls back and licks his lips, then crawls up over Aramis so he can nose and nuzzle at his mouth — 

His bitten lip —

"Oh — oh, Porthos, you smell like my *spend*!" 

Porthos rumbles. "Taste like it, too..." 

Aramis makes another small sound — 

Pushes his hands back into Porthos's hair — 

Pulls them out and pets Porthos's *beard* — 

"Pet me all the *time*, precious —" 

"I will! Please kiss me!" 

Porthos's cock jerks just for *that* — 

He *growls* — 

"Oh — Porthos?" 

"I need you. I *need* you." 

"Do what you *need*!" 

"I need *this*," Porthos says, and licks Aramis's soft mouth — 

And licks it again, again — 

Aramis makes a *garbled* noise and *flushes* — 

Tilts his head back and leaves himself open for the *dog* —

Porthos can *tell* that's what he's bloody *doing* — 

He's growling again, needing and needing and — 

Not shifting. Not — 

He's got his lead yanked tight. 

He's got the kennels *chained*. 

He — 

"You... are searching for your controls again, my Porthos?" 

"That's right." 

"Will you tell me what you're trying to stop yourself from doing?" 

Porthos opens his mouth to answer — stops. "Will you immediately ask me to do it?"

Aramis flushes. "We must decide *between* us what is appropriate!"

"That's true —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"*But*, for some things, I know better." 

Aramis scowls, scents going prickly and harsh and — 

And Porthos can never hide anything from his mate. 

That's wrong. 

He inclines his head. "I wanted to give you the dog." 

"What — you." 

Porthos waits.

"You wanted to *shift* before mating me?" 

"I wanted to shift *to* mate you." 

"Is that... proper?" 

"Oh, love..." 

"You must *tell* me —" 

"There are no real hard and fast rules for this. Only what *feels* right to the mates in question." 

"And this — giving me your dog — felt right —" 

"No. It *didn't*." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

"It didn't, precious. Which is why I yanked on my own lead. I *wanted* it — but I didn't *need* it." 

"You must have what you *desire*!" 

Porthos licks his lips and cups Aramis's beautiful face. "You think I don't, little precious?"

"I —" 

"I'm going to fuck you today..." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"Nice and hard, precious. Mean as we both want." 

"Oh, Porthos — *Porthos*. You must not wait!" 

Porthos *pants*, and he knows his tongue is showing. 

"Porthos —" 

"Need to buy a *little* bit more control first —" 

"No —" 

"*Yes*. Because I'm *going* to be stretching you open and going mad for your *musk* while I'm doing it —" 

Aramis groans and *arches* — 

"*Down*." 

Aramis cries out and *drops* — 

"Good boy. Good *boy*," Porthos says, and — covers him. Lowers himself right down and lines their cocks up — 

As soon as they *touch*, Aramis's jaw drops — 

"You feel that, little precious...?" 

"Yes! *Yes*! I want it *inside* me!" 

"You'll *get* it. Just the way we *both* want. But first? I'm going to spend all *over* you." 

Aramis blushes *hard* — "You. You are going to *mark* me?" 

Porthos growls and *thrusts* — 

"*AHN* —" 

"Oh — oh, *precious*, I —" And Porthos thrusts again — 

"Yes —" 

Again —

"*Yes*!"

Porthos *growls* and *shoves* against Aramis — 

"*GOD*!" 

And then Porthos has to get one hand in Aramis's hair, has to — 

And one hand on his throat. Not squeezing, just cupping. Holding him in *place*. 

Holding him right *down*. 

"My — my —" 

"*Mine*." 

Aramis *bucks* — 

Porthos snarls and shoves harder — 

Aramis coughs out what seems to be most of his *air* — and reaches up to *grip* Porthos by the hair. "Do not stop!" 

Porthos's cock jerks and jerks and *spits* slick — 

"My God —" 

"You *want* to be marked —" 

"By *you*!" 

Porthos growls and *yanks* Aramis's hair — 

"*Yes*, *yes*, I —" And Aramis wraps his legs around Porthos's *waist* — 

And Porthos gasps and snarls and *ruts*, just *ruts*, staring down into Aramis's beautiful and *darkening* face — 

His mouth is open — 

His eyes are wide and dazed — 

His mouth is *slack* — 

His eyes are rolling *up*, and Porthos's cock is jerking and jerking and — 

Aramis's scents *deepen* — 

Porthos moves the hand on his throat and *bites*, not breaking the skin, but hard, *hard* — 

Aramis *screams* — 

Wails *again* — 

And the first splash of Aramis's spend on Porthos's belly makes him snarl, bite even harder — 

Aramis wails *more* — 

And Porthos growls and growls and spends all over both of them, grinds it in, makes a *mess*, makes his boy smell — 

Almost right. 

Almost. 

He can't release Aramis's throat right away, not while he's still *spending*, but he can lift up a *little* — 

Let Aramis *gasp* — 

Sob — 

"My Porthos, I *love* you!" 

And there's a moment of blankness, no thought, no will, no — 

Control — 

He can hear Aramis making choked noises, *needy* noises, gasping and groaning and *shocked* noises — 

He can smell Aramis's perfect *musk* — 

He's all but *gulping* air — and that's what brings him back to himself, lets him *realize* that he'd picked Aramis up and flipped him *over*, *put* him on his hands and *knees* —

Spread him — 

Fuck — 

*Fuck* — 

Porthos licks a *long*, desperate stripe up along Aramis's cleft — 

Aramis *sobs* — 

Porthos has already licked most of the *sweat* away — 

And. 

That swelling is just. 

Right there. 

So tender...

Porthos growls low. 

"Will. Will my Porthos mate me now?" And Aramis's voice is — small. Too small.

Too *quiet*. 

It cuts through the musk, the haze, the —

Porthos stops spreading Aramis and grips his hips, instead, squeezes them *tight*. "What's wrong." 

"Nothing!" 

"Aramis... did I move too fast? Was it too much?" 

Aramis shivers — 

"I —" 

"*No*. You were *not* too fast, my Porthos. But... I was not expecting... that act." 

Porthos blinks — 

A *lot* —

*Regroups* and *thinks* — "You've never had your arse eaten." 

"I — no. In truth, my Porthos, my experience with sex is *mostly*... toys." 

"Oh, fuck." 

"You will not hesitate!" 

"I —" 

"You will *not*!" 

"Right, but —" 

"My mother, she told me my virginity was important, *valuable* —" 

"Shit —" 

"I am still not entirely certain I agree with her —" 

"Precious —" 

"— but my virginity is *definitely* *yours*, my Porthos, yours to do with what you will!" 

Porthos — groans. 

His cock aches *desperately*. 

Aramis's musk is just — 

All over his *face* — 

Porthos's hands are *shaking* on Aramis's hips — 

"Oh, Porthos... I..." And then Aramis lifts his *arse* and just — 

No.

*No* — 

Porthos *shoves* Aramis *flat*. 

"*Uff* — my Porthos! Is this how you wish me?" 

"No, precious. No. Not — well, that's not true. I want you every possible way," Porthos says, and laughs painfully. 

"Then —" 

"Shh. *Shh*." 

"I will be silent! For the moment." 

Porthos laughs *harder* — and *strokes* Aramis's lithe little body. 

Strokes him everywhere — 

Just *everywhere*. 

*Gives* himself that strong body — 

Beautiful little — 

Porthos growls at himself *every* time he catches himself about to lift his hips again — 

To spread his *arse* again — 

"*Porthos* —" 

"I need you on your knees," Porthos — admits. 

"Then —" 

"I need your *musk*." 

Aramis *moans*. "You must take it!"

"If you don't *like* me doing that —" 

"It is *strange*, my Porthos, and — and very *dirty* —" 

"Right, and —" 

"But *you* do not mind it..." 

"What? Fuck, no. I love it. I love you. I love everything *about* you," Porthos says, and that last was no better than a hungry growl. 

"My Porthos... perhaps *enjoys* it when his boy has not bathed?"

Porthos snarls — 

Aramis moans and *pushes* against Porthos's grip, *tries* to lift his arse again — and. 

"You're sweating more..." 

"Nn — you like this thing..." 

"I'd licked it all away, before. I was *craving* more," Porthos says, and breathes — 

And breathes — 

And breathes *deep* as Aramis pushes *against* him again — "Aramis..." 

"I liked it, my Porthos." 

"You..." 

"I think my Porthos could smell this. *Feel* this. Yes?" And Aramis pushes again. 

Again.

"I liked it... and I want more." 

Fuck. Porthos licks his lips and lifts Aramis gently — 

Moves him into a *comfortable* position — no. 

"Are you comfortable, little precious? You." Porthos licks his chops. "You're going to be there for a little while..." 

Aramis *groans* — and spreads his knees wider while bringing the left knee forward just a little. 

"Like that, precious?"

"Yes — yes, my Porthos —" 

"You're so bloody *perfect*," he says, spreading that arse wide and *diving* in, lapping away all the new sweat — 

And sucking on that tender little swelling. 

Sucking *hard* — 

"AHN —" 

Mouthing and nuzzling and — 

"Oh, P-*Porthos* —" 

He keeps that *right* up, getting his beard into it and *occasionally* lapping at that tight little hole — 

"Yes — yes — *yes* —" 

"Good *boy*," Porthos slurs, and *sucks* at that hole — 

Aramis screams and *shoves* his arse back against Porthos's face, and — new plan. 

Porthos *grinds* his face right in, sucking and sucking and pushing his tongue in just past the rim — 

Aramis stiffens and goes *silent* — 

Porthos growls *helplessly* — 

Aramis quivers and sobs and *clenches* — 

Flexes open immediately and *screams* again — 

And Porthos sucks *hard* again, starts fucking him, fucking him fast and wet and *nasty* — 

"Porthos — *PORTHOS* —" 

Makes *love* to that hole, takes it for himself, *gives* it to himself — 

All that musk — 

All that *musk*, and Porthos is still growling, still — 

And his tongue is lengthening, too. 

His — 

And Aramis's noises are getting choked again, *desperate* again, and Porthos will pay attention, not let himself get too — 

"Porthos — Porthos, I will *spend*!" 

— lost. Fuck. 

*Fuck*. 

He shifts his tongue *all* the way — 

Aramis *shrieks* — 

Porthos *whips* his tongue inside him, reaches to grip his stiff cock — 

And Aramis sobs and mutters and *immediately* starts riding Porthos's *face*. 

Just — 

Good *boy*. 

Porthos *pumps* and *works* his cock, fucks him fast, licks and *slurps* —

Aramis clenches *violently* and *shakes* — 

Porthos growls and tosses Aramis *off* — 

Aramis *wails* — 

And this close — 

When Aramis's scents *deepen* — 

Porthos's cock *spits* slick and all he can do is croon and lap and slurp and *suckle* at that hole while Aramis wails and shudders and spills all over his *hand*. 

Porthos is *drunk* — 

Porthos is — 

Is — 

He's so bloody *hungry* — 

Aramis is *swaying* — 

Groaning — 

Porthos is still grinding his *face* in — 

Aramis is going to have a *terrible* time on a horse if Porthos keeps this — up. 

And then he remembers what he's going to be doing bloody *imminently*. 

And pulls back. 

And pants. 

And *kisses* that hole. 

"Mm! I! *Porthos*..." 

He kisses up and *down* that cleft — 

"Yes? Yes, more?" 

Porthos pulls back, pants a little more, and *gently* rolls Aramis away from their impressive little wet spot, onto his back. 

"Oh... Porthos? You are so *hard*!" 

And Porthos has to grin — "You sound *surprised*, precious." 

"I am impressed by your *control*." And Aramis licks his lips and *looks* at Porthos's cock. Almost studies it, really. 

"And you can do that *all* you want..."

"Do what?" 

"Look at my cock like you want to publish a treatise about it." 

"I! Hm. It is a very fascinating cock, my Porthos." 

"I suppose it is," Porthos says, gripping it by the base — being careful of the hugely sensitive knot — and tugging it down from his belly so that Aramis can get a good look at the top.

"You *suppose*?" 

Porthos snickers. "It's just like Daddy's. And Lucien's."

"Your *mother* said that your cock was especially *large* —" 

Porthos *coughs*. "Uh." 

Aramis looks at him. 

"Uh..." 

Aramis looks at him *harder*. 

Porthos *sweats* — no. Answer his boy. "It's um. It's bigger, yeah. In some ways." 

"Yes?" 

Porthos *stares*. 

Aramis looks at him *expectantly*. 

"Did you... want me... to be specific?" 

Aramis continues to *look* at him — but his scents are sparking, bright, *amused* — 

"Oh, fuck — *Aramis* —" 

And he's giggling now, giggling *explosively* — 

Covering his *face* — 

Porthos tugs that hand away *immediately* — 

"Oh — my Porthos!" 

"*Yes*?" 

"It is only — your family, they are involved in *every* aspect of your *life*!" 

"That's true —" 

"Your mother described the size of your *knot* to me!" 

Porthos covers *his* face — no, not that. "I um. They're very hands-on sorts of people." 

"I have seen this!" 

"Yeah, and —" 

"It is so *endearing* when you show actual *embarrassment*, my Porthos." 

Oh. "Is it, then?" 

"Yes!" 

"My face caught *flame* when Uncle Kitos described me as a 'walking cock and bollocks' before sending me home to *mate* you *finally*." 

Aramis *coughs*. "He... ah. He does not usually speak this way?" 

"He *does*. With the *adults*. There was *some* teasing when Athos and I hit our adolescence, but it was *Uncle Kitos*. He was *incredibly* gentle about it *always*." 

Aramis gives him a shrewd look. "You are no longer a child in *his* eyes." 

"He still *calls* me 'lad' *all* the time, precious." 

"But *he* is the one who promoted you and Athos, yes? Who insisted on it?" 

"Yeah —" 

"And he is the one who makes *certain* that you have responsibilities *suited* to your new rank, yes?" 

"Absolutely — I see what you're saying." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. "Yes?" 

Porthos strokes Aramis's long, lean thighs. "Yeah. Daddy *and* Uncle Laurent might have decided to 'take it easy' on Athos and me." 

"And not give you as many new responsibilities?" 

"And not bloody *promote* us in the first place," Porthos says, and laughs hard. "They were *both* convinced we'd hate losing our freedom so much that we'd just lose our *minds*." 

"This is insulting!" 

"Athos felt the same way." 

"You did not? Why not!" 

Porthos leans in and nibbles Aramis's throat — 

"Oh — *oh* — does my Porthos need —" 

"Shh. I just needed a taste, right then," Porthos says, and licks — 

And licks — 

And pulls back, settling on his heels. He thinks about it — 

And then he spreads Aramis's legs a *bit* wider. 

There. 

Aramis smiles up at him *filthily*. "Better, my Porthos?" 

"*Much*. Now where was I...?" 

That filthy look gets *hotter* for a moment — but then Aramis licks his lips and grins. "Tell me about your *parents*, my Porthos. Tell me everything."

"Precious thing..." 

"I am a thing?" 

"You're everything to me." 

Aramis *purrs* — and settles back on his elbows. "Tell me!" 

"Right you are. They were remembering how *they* felt when they gave up their freedoms to take on more responsibilities. They were remembering what it was like for *them* to suddenly have to be grown men — *real* grown men — instead of boys who were just really *good* with their dangerous toys. And? They were also putting a shine on what it was like to be boys. Nostalgia paints pretty pictures, little precious." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. "But..." 

"Mm?" 

"They were still not thinking of *you* and *Athos*." 

"No, they weren't. Not until we completely failed to fall apart, anyway. I've meant to talk to Daddy about it. See how he feels *now*." 

"And... Athos means to talk to your Uncle?" 

"That he does." 

"You do not let things *go* unspoken in this family." 

Porthos smiles. "Not if we can at *all* help it, no. Dogs are bad at that sort of thing. As for the de la Fères... well. Aunt Marie-Angelique says that she got so tired of *waiting* for Uncle Laurent before they were formally introduced that she fell out of the habit of waiting to speak her mind until things seemed 'appropriate'." 

"I like this thing!" 

"I've had an *inkling* that you *might*..." 

"You tease? You tease your only mate?" 

Porthos coughs — "I —" 

"You tease your mate who only wishes to love you and please you and ride your big cock —" 

"Ride — uh." 

Aramis beams. "Yes? Yes?" 

Porthos lies down beside Aramis, *lifts* Aramis into a straddle of his lap — 

"Oh, my *Porthos* —" 

Takes the oil out of the bedside table — 

"Yes yes —" 

"Let's give that a try *immediately*."


	10. Okay, now you can loosen it up a bit. As it were.

Aramis rests his palms flat on Porthos's hairy, soft-over-*hard* belly and — 

No, he pets, he *pets*, because he's wanted to, and because it is impossible to stay *completely* still while his Porthos is slicking his *fingers* — 

So long, so thick! 

Aramis wriggles atop Porthos — 

"Oh, *precious*..." And Porthos's voice is full of such pleasure, such *relish* — 

Aramis beams and grips and pets his *cock*. "You like it when your boys ride you? It is your favourite thing?" 

"Uh. Fuck." 

"Mm? No?" Porthos's cock is very smooth, very *sleek* — 

The foreskin — the *sheath* — is *thick* and *furred* and pulled all the way back!

Aramis pets and strokes and — 

"Fuck, precious, don't do that," Porthos says, and laughs hard. 

Aramis frowns. "My Porthos —" 

"Oh, fuck, you want to play with it?" 

"Yes!" 

Porthos bangs his head back against the pillows twice — and laughs more — 

"Porthos —" 

"I *want* you to play with it —" 

"Then —" 

"But I'm going to lose my *mind* if you do." 

Aramis — remembers what Porthos had said about Aramis *touching* him, *gripping* him... he sighs. 

He releases Porthos's cock. 

He pats it. 

*Porthos* sighs in *relief* — 

Oh — his *fingers* were shaking — "My *Porthos*, is being *stroked* your favourite thing?" 

"*You're* my favourite thing —" 

"*Porthos* —" 

"Here, let me..." And Porthos sits up and scoots them back until *his* back is against the headboard. He grins. "There. How's that?" 

"Tell me things!" 

"*Absolutely*," Porthos says, and reaches down to *spread* Aramis with one hand — 

"Oh — I am — you have left me so wet!" 

"You're just going to get *wetter*, precious. Are you ready?" 

"Yes — *yes*! Tell me —" 

"My *favourite* thing to do when I'm making love," Porthos says, and begins to *stroke* Aramis's cleft with thick fingers, his *slick* fingers — 

So good — "Please —" 

"You like this, precious...?" 

"Yes!" 

Porthos rumbles. "Good," he says, and licks Aramis's temple. "I like... taking control." 

"Oh..." 

"I like *having* control. Making my lover *all* mine. In every. Possible. Way."

"Oh, *Porthos* —" 

"Are you all mine, little precious...?" And he *presses* on Aramis's *hole* — 

Aramis is still so *sensitive* — 

So — so hot and *chafed* — 

Aramis wriggles and pushes *back* — 

"Be *still*, precious." 

Aramis grunts and *obeys* — 

"Good boy," Porthos says, and licks his temple again. "Answer the question." 

"I — I — I am yours! I am *all* yours!" 

Porthos *growls* — 

So *hungrily* — 

Rubs and rubs and *rubs* at Aramis's hole — 

Aramis can feel every *callus* — 

Aramis is panting and *moaning*, *leaking* — 

"You smell *delicious*, little precious..." 

"You sound as if you wish to *eat* me, my Porthos!" 

Porthos laughs. "But I do. I want to take great big *bites* out of you..." 

"*Oh* —" 

"I want your blood, little precious. I want — mm. But I won't injure you. Not ever." 

"I know this thing! I feel this thing!" 

Porthos growls and growls and presses so *hard* as he rubs — 

"My Porthos, please, please, push *in* —" 

"You fuck yourself." 

"Not — not *recently*, my Porthos, but yes!" 

"You've used..." Porthos growls again. "Tell me about the toys," he says, and pushes in with *one* finger — 

"Ah! Oh, yes! Oh, *yes*!" 

"Oh, precious..." 

"Please! Your finger is so good, so thick, so — it goes so far!" 

Porthos growls. "So you did use your fingers after you couldn't use your toys..." 

"Yes, my Porthos! *Yes*. I — I liked, and there was — please — I cannot *concentrate* —" 

"When I do this?" And Porthos *fucks* him with his finger — 

Strokes in and in and — 

Aramis *groans* — 

*Clutches* at Porthos's shoulders — 

"Do you need me to stop so you can answer me...?" 

Aramis *grunts*, eyes widening — "No! Please!" 

"Then answer, precious. You know I need to know..." 

Aramis flushes as his hole flexes *open* around Porthos's finger — he must obey. He *must* obey. "Yes. Yes, my Porthos. The toys... were all ivory —" 

"*Very* nice. My little precious deserves fine things," Porthos says, and crooks *up* —

Aramis *sobs* — 

*Shakes* —

*Drops* his head to Porthos's shoulder — 

"Yeah, just take this for me..." 

"Yes — yes —" 

Porthos *rubs* his pleasure-button — 

Rubs so *gently* — 

Aramis clenches — 

Shakes all *over* — "Please — *please*, Porthos —" 

"What are you begging for, precious? Mm?" 

"I want — I want to move —" 

"You can't — yet. Not yet, precious." 

Aramis moans — "My Porthos —" 

"Shh. I'll take care of you, little precious. You know that, right?" 

And Porthos's warmth, Porthos's care, Porthos's *love* is still all through Aramis — he doesn't think he will *ever* be able to let it *go*. "*Yes*, my Porthos." 

Porthos rumbles. "My boy. My good, good boy, taking this so sweet..." And he *stops* rubbing Aramis's pleasure-button and goes back to *fucking* him — 

To — 

Thrusting and thrusting and — 

"Oh, my Porthos, it's so *good*!" 

"It's only going to get better, little precious. I..." Porthos growls again. "Tell me more about the toys. Were they... thick?" 

Aramis moans. "One of them, my Porthos! One of them was as thick as — as two of your fingers! More!" 

"Oh, *precious*. And you took that one...?" 

Aramis flushes. "Not *often*, my Porthos. I had to — to be *loose*."

"Mm. You had to *spend* first." 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"More than once?" 

"No, my Porthos, I — mm. Oh..."

"Yeah. You feel me *teasing* you with a second finger..." 

"Yes, my Porthos, I want it! I want it very badly!" 

"Ask for it," Porthos says. *Rumbles*. 

Aramis's cock *jerks* — 

He *pants* — 

"Please, my Porthos! Please give me another finger!" 

"And fuck you with it?" 

Aramis winces with *lust* — "Please, yes!" 

"Say it." 

"Fuck me! Please fuck me!"

"Do you need it, precious...?" 

"I need your *cock*!" 

Porthos growls and bites his *cheek* — 

"*Ahn* — oh, Porthos, should I apologize?" 

Porthos growls more — 

*More* — 

And then pulls *back*. "Not even a little, precious." 

"Nuh. No?" 

"Like I said — sometimes I just need to bite you." 

"Oh. *Oh*. I *need* you, my Porthos!" And Aramis pulls back enough to look up into Porthos's eyes — 

To *study* his hot gaze, so *hungry* — 

Porthos's *tongue* is showing just a little — 

Aramis moans and clenches again, *again* — 

"Is that so, little precious...?" 

"I — was thinking of your *tongue* —" 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and — starts to push in with the second finger!

Aramis *gasps* and tries to breathe, tries to calm himself — 

Tries — 

"That's right, little precious... slow it down..." 

Aramis nods and nods and *breathes* — and Porthos doesn't stop. 

He pushes in slowly, *steadily* — 

His fingers are so *thick*!

So — 

So much *warmer* — 

They feel so *different* — 

Aramis is *clutching* at Porthos again, *panting* — 

"*Breathe*, precious..." 

Aramis grunts again — and slows his breathing down. 

Slow. *Slow*.

He must obey his Porthos. His — 

"That's right, precious. You're such a good boy..." And Porthos licks a *long* stripe from Aramis's jawline to his temple — 

"Please, I must be *your* good boy!" 

"You *are*." 

"Always — please, always!" 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles — "I'll *never* let you go," he says, and — his fingers are all the way in. 

So — 

So *deep* — 

Aramis *groans* and *shakes* — 

"Yeah, you feel me *inside* you..." 

"Yes! Making me full!" 

"Oh, precious... you're not full, yet." 

Aramis's cock *spasms* — 

He *croaks* — 

Clenches and *shouts* — 

"That's right. I want you to make *all* the noise for me, precious..." 

"I — I've had to be quiet!" 

"*Not* with me." 

Aramis *whimpers* — "I want to move!" 

"You *can't*, yet. Here, I'll make it a little easier," Porthos says, and moves his other hand to Aramis's hip, gripping *tight* — 

Holding him *still* — 

Holding him in *place*, and — 

"Oh, Porthos!" 

"How's that?" 

"It is good! It is very good!" 

"You like it when I hold you still, precious...?" And Porthos licks Aramis's ear twice and starts to *rock* his fingers — 

His two big *fingers* — 

Aramis is panting and *grunting* — 

Dropping his head to Porthos's shoulder and *grunting* — 

"Oh, my little *precious*. You've *needed* this. Haven't you." 

He has. He has. "Yes. Yes, my Porthos. Please —" 

"You've needed to be *fucked*." 

Aramis grunts *again* — 

Flexes *open* — and dreams. 

Dreams of having — more. More even than *this*, because it's possible, isn't it? 

He is everything to Porthos! Doesn't that mean that Porthos can be everything to him? Porthos wants to take *care* of him. Porthos wants to *give* everything to him — 

Porthos — 

Aramis whimpers, turns his head, and licks Porthos's sweat-slick throat — 

Porthos *pants*. "Precious." 

"My Porthos. My Porthos, I..." 

Porthos rocks his fingers *slower* — 

Aramis groans *desperately* — 

"Tell me. Tell me what it is, precious. I can *smell* you thinking hard." 

"Oh. Oh, *yes*, I —" Aramis licks his lips and *kisses* Porthos's throat. 

"Precious..." 

"My Porthos, he. He wishes to care for his Aramis." 

"That's right..." 

"To *take* care of his Aramis. And to... to guide him, and teach him, and have *control* of him." 

Porthos growls. "That's what I want every day of my *life*, precious..." 

"And. And. I am your boy. Your *good* boy." 

Porthos tightens his grip on Aramis's hip — 

Squeezes *tight* — 

"You want more than I've given you." 

Aramis pants and flushes and *sweats* — 

"Shh, shh... you know I want to give you everything, precious love..." 

"Yes. Yes, I feel — I *feel* —" 

"But you have to tell me, precious," Porthos says, and licks Aramis's sweaty temples. "You have to tell me who you need your Porthos to *be* to you." And his voice is firm, so *firm* — 

Aramis is *moaning* — 

Trying to *ride* his fingers — 

Trying — 

"Be still now, precious. Be still and *tell* me. Because I can make guesses... but I don't want to *hurt* you with them. I don't want to take you *away* from this. Then again, if you tell me that it's *better* for me to make the guesses —" 

"You. I had no true father!" And that was a *blurt* — 

He must be as red as a *beet* — 

He is panting so *harshly* — 

And Porthos is growling and growling and squeezing him *tightly*. 

Licking his *ear* so *hungrily* — 

Growling *more* — "Now you do, precious."

*Oh* — but — "I — I — I must have *you* —" 

"You're all mine. *No* one else's." 

Aramis groans and whimpers and *clutches* — "Not even your parents'? Athos's?" 

"Just mine, little precious," Porthos says, and *he* is panting — 

They are close enough that Aramis can feel his *heart* pounding — 

"*Mine*." 

Aramis clenches and *sobs* — 

"Oh, *precious* — but." 

"But? But what! I will do —"

"Shh. Should I *call* you precious? Mm? Or should I call you something *else*." 

Aramis groans and *claws* Porthos's *back* — 

Porthos pants — "Tell me." 

"Call me all things! I love all your *names* for me, Papa!" And Aramis is blushing even *harder* — 

"Say that again." 

"I love — I love — oh, Papa, your *fingers*!" 

"I can't stop, little precious," Porthos says, *Papa* says — "I can't stop *fucking* you —" 

"Do *not* stop!" 

"Say it *again*." 

"Please, Papa, *fuck* me!" 

"*Shit*," Papa says, and *yanks* Aramis closer — 

"*Yes*!" 

"You feel me, precious? You feel how hard and hot and *slick* I am for you?" 

"I want to taste you!" 

Papa snarls and spreads his *fingers* —

Aramis *yells* — 

His body is trying and failing to *buck* — 

Papa is holding him too *tightly*, too perfectly, too — 

"Oh, *precious*, you —" And Papa flares his nostrils and pants again. "You liked that." 

"Yes, Papa, yes!" 

"Should I fuck you this way?" And Papa rocks his fingers with them still *spread*. "Mm? Should I?" 

"Unh — *unh* —" 

"Answer me." 

"You — you — *Papa*..." 

"Tell me or I'll have to *discipline* you," Papa says, and raises his eyebrows just a little — 

Asks him — 

*Asks* — 

Aramis *groans*. "I do not know what I *wish*, Papa!" 

"You don't know if you want your Papa to be hard on you, precious...? We *don't* have to decide right away —" 

"No, no, my Papa *must* discipline me, and — and show me the proper *ways*!" 

Papa snarls again — and shakes himself. 

And pants — 

"Then you don't know if you want to be disciplined right *now*." 

Aramis smiles in *relief*. "*Yes*, Papa. You are so good! Everything is so *good*!" 

"I'll make the discipline good, too, precious..." 

Aramis moans — "I know this thing!" 

"You can *move* during the discipline —" 

*Oh* — "*Please*, Papa!" 

Papa laughs *evilly* and *stops* spreading his fingers — 

Holds them still and — 

"Oh, *no* —" 

But then he starts *spanking* Aramis with his other hand!

"Papa!" 

"Yes, precious...?" 

"Oh, *Papa*," Aramis says, and he's flushing, shuddering — 

Trying not to — but Papa said he *could* move!

Papa must *want* him to move!

Aramis throws his arms around Papa's neck and *shoves* back into the smacks — 

Takes — 

Fucks *himself* — 

"Oh, precious... mm. You just keep that up," Papa says, showing his tongue again and spanking *harder* — 

"AHN!" 

"Don't stop." 

"No! N-no!" And Aramis *works* for it, *takes* it —

Takes every stinging *slap* — 

Takes every — 

Every *push* of those fingers — 

Every perfect *thrust* — 

Aramis can't *focus*, can't — 

He can't *see*, can't *think* — 

"You don't have to, precious. You don't have to do anything but work. Your. *Arse*." 

Is he speaking aloud? He can't *tell*. He's yelling and obeying, *obeying* — 

He's sweating — 

Aching — 

He's so *hard*, so — 

He's leaking so *much* — 

He wants *more* — 

"Do you, now..." 

"Oh — oh, Papa, I didn't mean to speak —" 

"Shh. What do you want. Tell me." 

"I — I don't know!" 

"No...? Are you *sure*...?" And Papa smacks his arse *hard* — 

Aramis *shouts* —

*Bucks* against Papa's big *cock* — 

Blinks and aches and — 

His cock is spasming again and — 

Papa is smacking and smacking — 

"Papa, I will spend!" 

"Just for this...?" 

"If — if — please fuck me! Please start *fucking* me again, Papa!" 

"*While* I'm giving you your discipline?" 

"Yes, please!" 

"You'll have to be still —" 

Aramis whimpers and clings *tight* to Papa with his arms and *legs*, holding still still *still*. 

"Oh, good boy, good *boy*. You're going to mark your *Papa*." 

"*UNGH* —" 

"You're going to —" And Papa growls and *crooks* his fingers — 

Aramis *howls* — 

"*Fuck* — you're going to spend all over me," Papa says, panting and licking his lips, his *face*. "You're going to get me wet. Get me *slick*. Get me *dirty*." 

"Y-*yes*, Papa!" 

"Take it," Papa says, and starts *fucking* him with his two fingers, so good, so *good* — 

And then the spanks begin to land again, back and forth and back again — 

So hard — 

So *hot* — 

Aramis shudders and *screams* — 

"Oh, precious, yes, *yes*, *come* on, now," Papa says, and crooks again — 

Aramis *chokes* on his scream, clenches *tight* — but Papa doesn't slow *down*.

Not the spanks and not the *fucking*. It's so fast, it's so *hard* — 

Aramis can't close his *mouth* — 

Aramis can't *breathe* — 

He can't do anything but let the noise fall out of his *mouth*, desperate sobs and screams and — 

And *wails* — 

"That's right — that's just right, precious —" 

"*Papa*!" 

"*Do* it!" 

And Aramis can *feel* his eyes opening *wide* — but that is the very *last* thing he feels before his belly drops and his cock spasms and everything in him flares, lights, *ignites* — 

He is wailing more and spending, spurting all over his Papa just the way he is *supposed* to — 

He — 

"Good *boy*!" 

He must be, he *must* be — 

Papa treats him so well, Papa treats him so *perfectly* — 

Papa takes *care* of him — 

"Give me *more*," Papa says, and there is a *third* finger — 

Aramis gasps — 

His cock jerks and jerks — and *spurts* more when Papa starts pushing in, stretching him *wide*, opening him so *wide* — 

Aramis *sobs* — 

"*There's* my boy —" 

"*Yours*!" 

"I'm going to give you *everything* soon, little precious. Everything I *can*," Papa says, pushing and pushing and *pushing* until Aramis is *stuffed* with those three fingers — 

Aramis still can't close his *mouth* — 

He's panting and all but *drooling* — 

"Oh, *precious*... here." And Porthos uses his long reach to retrieve the bottle of wine that had been left for them beside the bed. He pops the cork with his thumb and lifts the bottle to Aramis's lips. "Drink." 

"Yes, Papa," Aramis slurs — *moans* — and obeys. 

Papa gives him one long drink and two shorter drinks, and then raises his eyebrows in question. 

Aramis smiles. "I am well, my Papa. I am... full." 

"Not yet..." 

Aramis shivers. "Yes, Papa." 

Porthos drinks deep, then puts the bottle aside. "You're not scared, at all. You're not even a little *intimidated*." 

"Why should I be? My Papa *cares* for me." 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles. "Your Papa wants to care for you so hard you pass out in a puddle of sweat and spend." 

Aramis giggles — and *gasps* for what that does for the feel of those fingers inside him — 

All of those *fingers*!

He rocks back on them testingly — 

"No, easy, little precious. Save that for when you're riding my cock." 

"Oh. *Oh*. You will let me...?" 

Papa grins. "It *is* one of my very favourite things..." 

"Oh, Papa, yes, yes, I will do it just as you like —" 

"Mmmm... yeah, you will," Papa says, laughing and rocking his fingers in — 

"Nnh —" 

And out — 

"Oh, please —" 

And *in* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"You don't curse nearly enough," Papa says. 

"I —" 

And then Papa *twists* his fingers — 

"Fuck! Oh, *fuck*!" 

"That's better," Papa says, rumbling more and rocking in with a twisting *motion* — 

"Papa!" 

"Can you take it, precious?" 

"Yes! *Yes*!" 

"Can you..." Papa pants. "Can you make me even *needier* for you?" 

"I — I will do *anything*!" 

"For me?" 

"I am *yours*, my Papa!" 

"My boy..." And Papa fucks in, twists *in*, fucks *in* — 

And Aramis groans and holds still and takes it, *takes* it, breathing as deeply and evenly as he can, and — 

It is not very even or deep. 

It's too good. 

It's too *sweet*. 

Too — 

Papa is *opening* him, and making his body want to be opened *more*. 

Papa is *working* him open *wide* — 

"Papa..." And Aramis licks and licks at the sweat on Papa's shoulder —

Licks up into Papa's soft, crushable beard — so *musky* — 

"*Fuck*, precious —" 

"Yes? You like?" 

"Tell me I can kiss you. Tell me I can kiss you *deep*." 

"Yes! Yes, *please*!" 

Papa growls and *takes* his mouth, unfurling his tongue — 

So long and *thin* — 

Aramis hums and sucks and — tastes himself. 

Tastes his own *musk*. 

Moans and licks and sucks *more* — 

And then *chokes* because Papa begins to fuck his *mouth* with his long tongue, fuck it in the same rhythm he's using for his thick *fingers* — 

Aramis is being fucked in both of his *holes*, and oh, he wants that, he *wants* that — 

And he thinks he can have it. 

He tugs *lightly* against Papa's grip on the back of his head — 

"*Mm* —" Papa releases him immediately — "Precious, what is it?" He slows his *fingers* — 

"Oh, Papa, Papa, no, I just — I want you to *share* me with your Athos —" 

"I *will*." 

"I want you to take my arse while he has my *mouth* —" 

"Oh, *fuck* —" 

"Yes, I — *oof* —" 

And Aramis is flat on his *back* — 

And Papa is holding him *down* — 

Fucking him *that* way — 

"Pull your knees up, precious. Nice and high."

"Yes, Papa — *ahn*!" 

"Yeah. It's different, isn't it."

"Yes! *Yes*!

"Can't let you ride me. Not yet. Not —" Papa growls and spreads his *fingers* — 

Aramis *howls* again — 

"Fuck fuck —" And Papa crooks his fingers again — 

Again — 

Again and again and *again* — 

"Papa! *Papa*!" 

"Are you close again?" 

"Yes!" 

"Then it's time," Papa says, straightening his fingers and tugging them *out*. It's slow, so very *slow*, but Aramis is shaking — 

They are both *shaking*!

"Need you, precious, need you right *now*." 

"Yes yes yes yes —" 

"You're so *beautiful* —"

"*Ah* –"

"Oh, there. There we are," Papa says, and he's all the way out, he's panting, he's *staring* down at Aramis and wiping his hand on a linen. "Almost there, precious." 

"Yes! I — yes!" 

Papa pants, tongue showing again — "Say please." 

"*Please*, Papa, please don't *wait*!" 

"Say you want your Papa to hurt you just a little..." 

Aramis's cock *jerks* — 

He *shouts* — 

"*Please*! Yes! Do it!" 

Papa grins — and uses the oil to slick his already-*dripping* cock. "That's my *boy*." 

"Oh, *Papa* —" 

"That's my good, good..." He growls and tosses his head a little — "No." 

"No? No what —" 

"I want to give you the dog. But it's not time for that." 

"Oh, *Papa* —" 

"Shh. Legs over my thighs." 

"*Yes*, Papa," Aramis says, and obeys immediately — 

Arches up — 

"Please take me, please *fill* me — *oh* —" 

"You've never felt anything this *hot*," he says, and *drags* the tip of his cock along Aramis's cleft — 

"No, Papa, no —" 

"This — rr. Pointy." 

"Oh, Papa, please put it *in* me!" 

Papa pants and pants and *pushes* — 

So hot, so thick, so — 

He is so *big*!

"Oh yes!" 

"Precious —" 

"Yes, more!" 

"Precious, I — I —" 

"Give me all of it!" 

Papa growls and shoves *in* — 

Aramis arches and *howls* — 

"Oh, shit, oh — fuck — *fuck*, you're still so *tight* —" 

"You're so big! You're so — oh, Papa, oh, *Papa*!" 

Papa growls and strokes him, scratches him, *pets* him — 

"Yes, yes —" 

"Are you all *right* —" 

"*Fuck* me!" 

Papa snarls and cups Aramis's face with one big hand, dips his thumb in Aramis's *mouth* — 

"Mm!" 

Papa grips his *hip* with his other hand — and thrusts —

"Hngh —"

"More. More, precious," Papa says, and thrusts *harder* — 

"PLEASE!" And it's messy, loud, *messy* around Papa's *thumb* — 

"Oh, that's it, that's perfect, that's —" And Papa thrusts again, again, *again* — 

Aramis *whines* and *sucks* Papa's thumb — 

Papa growls and strokes up to Aramis's nipples, pinches and *pulls* as he *fucks* — 

"*AHN* —" 

"Good — good *boy* —" 

"Papa!" 

"Going to give you my knot soon..." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

His eyes are *wide* — 

His belly is clenching and his arse is flexing *open* and — 

"Yeah. Yeah, you weren't — nnh. Thinking. About it. Oh, precious. Oh, precious, I'll make it so *sweet*," Papa says, and fucks him fast, *fast* — 

Aramis *screams* again — 

"Oh, you good *boy* — just — just *taking* it —" 

And Aramis wants to tell his Papa it feels good, feels perfect, feels so *right* — 

Papa's knot is *smacking* against him — 

It's so hot and *huge* — 

Aramis spreads his legs *wider* — 

"No, no, precious, squeeze me tight, hold me *tight*," Papa says, *pants*, and he's *dripping* sweat on Aramis — 

Aramis squeezes him with his thighs — 

Tries to pull him *in* — 

"Oh — *shit*, you gorgeous little —" And Papa growls and wraps his *arms* around Aramis — 

*Lifts* him *while* he is *fucking* — 

"Oh, Papa! *Papa*!" 

"*Take* it," Papa says, and kisses him hard, *deep*, *musky* — 

Settles back on his heels and settles Aramis on his *lap* — 

Fucks up and up and *in* and *in* — 

Aramis is groaning and *drooling* too much to kiss *back* — 

He can't *see* again — 

He can't think and — 

But he can hold his Papa, squeeze, show him he loves him, loves him so *much* — 

Papa growls and spreads his *arse* with both hands — 

Even as he *fucks* — 

Aramis whimpers and licks and licks at Papa's tongue — 

"Good *boy*," Papa slurs into his mouth and slows *down* — but before Aramis can protest, Papa starts thrusting harder, starts — 

Oh, pushing — 

Pushing his knot *in* — 

Aramis clutches with his arms and *legs* — 

He will be good, he will be *good*, he will take *all* of this — 

"Oh, precious, oh —" And Papa growls and pushes in *hard* — 

And Aramis can't *breathe* for the sensations of fullness, for the *incredible* feelings of — 

Of *size* — 

He is being stretched so *wide*!

It *hurts*, and Aramis's cock is jerking and jerking and leaking all *over* Papa, and he can't — 

"*Breathe*." 

Aramis gasps — 

Gasps again and again — 

Clenches and *howls* — 

Papa *snarls* — 

He's *shuddering* — 

And Aramis can breathe, he can breathe, he *will* — 

He breathes. 

He breathes. 

He — his body flexes *open*, and it feels like there's hardly *any* give*, but — there is relief. 

And Papa is panting and stroking him, stroking him so firmly, so perfectly — 

And pushing — 

And *pushing* — 

And tugging Aramis *down*.

"Papa —" 

"You can *stop* me," Papa says, and he sounds strained, desperate, *starved* — 

"Papa, no —" 

"*Yes*. I *know* — I know Mum told you to — to *test* me —" 

"I do not wish to! I wish you to *have* me!" 

Papa pants — 

And pants — 

And licks Aramis all over his face with his *long* tongue as he thrusts up and pulls Aramis *down* — 

Aramis *screams* — 

Shakes — 

Papa holds him tighter — 

The feeling goes on and *on* — 

He is being opened wider than he has ever — ever — 

But then Papa's knot almost seems to *pop* in — 

Aramis's *rim* is no longer stretched so far — 

Aramis can — can *breathe* — 

He sobs. 

He sobs and buries his *face* against Papa's throat — 

Papa shudders and shudders and holds him tight. "There. I've got you, precious. You're." Papa swallows and shudders *more* — "You're tied now..."

Aramis sobs more and *groans* as his cock spasms and leaks, spasms and *aches* — "Papa..." 

"Tell me, precious. Tell me. I'll give you *anything*." 

"Papa, I. I need to *spend*..."

Papa *pants* — "Then feel this," he says, and *ruts* up — 

"UNGH!" 

"You're going to *feel* my — my knot on your poor little pleasure-button —" 

"Please! Please!" And Aramis is struggling to bounce, to *ride* — 

He can't *get* anywhere — 

And then Papa squeezes his hips and holds him still and he *really* can't get anywhere, can't — 

"Please, *Papa* —" 

"Now," Papa says, and holds him still for every — 

Every thrust — 

Every *buck* — 

They're so short!

They're so —

Aramis is grunting and *clawing* at Papa, licking his salty *throat*, grunting and *moaning* —

Papa is growling under his breath *constantly* — 

His grip is *bruising* — 

He's — 

The thrusts are so *rough*, and every one of them *rams* against Aramis's pleasure-button — 

So hard — 

So hot and hard and — 

Aramis hears himself *croon* — 

Papa snarls and *slams* in — "*Precious*." 

"Yes! *Yes*! MORE!" 

And Papa snarls again — 

Moves so *quickly* — 

And then there are *teeth* in Aramis's throat, at the join of Aramis's throat to his *shoulder*, digging in and — 

And — 

"*Please*!" 

Papa bites *down* — 

Aramis wails and *spends*, even as he feels himself *bleeding*, feels himself *giving* — 

Papa sucks, slurps, laps, *fucks* — 

Papa *makes* Aramis ride him *while* he fucks — 

Aramis wails and spends more, *more* — 

(Precious...) 

Aramis's heart *leaps* — 

Papa is inside him, all through him, all *over* him — 

Papa is *everything* — 

(You're *mine*!) 

Aramis spurts *again* — 

Slumps — 

(Not yet. Not *yet*, precious...) And Papa sucks *hard* on Aramis's throat and fucks him harder, *faster* — 

Makes Aramis *ride* faster — 

So good — 

So *good* — 

All of him is open, slack, *pliant* for his mate — 

His *Papa* — 

He will give his *all* —

(That's right you will. That — oh, precious — oh, precious, I'm so *hot*,) Papa says, and his growls are louder, more fierce, more hungry, more *desperate* — 

He is *relentless* — 

He is shoving in and in — 

Over and over and *over* again — 

Aramis feels like a *ragdoll* — 

(Prettiest — most beautiful —) Papa snarls and bites him again — 

Aramis can only *gasp* — 

(So *delicious* — I *need* you!) 

I'm yours, Papa! I *love* you!

(I'm yours *forever*, precious. I'm — ah, fuck — ah, fuck, here it comes,) Papa says, wrapping his arms around Aramis and fucking him hard, *hard* — 

Yes!

Aramis's cock is trying to rise *again* —

(Perfect — *boy* —) 

YOURS!

And Papa's cock *spasms* inside him — 

He doesn't stop. 

He doesn't — 

It spasms again and again and — 

He *howls* — 

He howls into Aramis's *throat* — 

Aramis can feel it up and down his *spine* — 

Papa shoves *deep* — and spurts. 

He — 

He is *spilling* inside Aramis, giving him his hot, wild spend — 

Filling him — 

Oh, filling him so — 

And his knot is getting *bigger*!

Aramis gasps and groans and gasps *more* — 

Papa squeezes him *tighter* — 

Spurts and spurts and *howls* again — 

Aramis squeezes *him* — 

*Plasters* himself to his Papa and holds *on* — 

His knot is still *swelling* — 

How much bigger will it *get* — 

(Not... much,) Papa says, and starts to rock them both, while lapping at Aramis's wounds. 

"Oh, Papa —" That was somewhat wheezed, but — 

(Not ready to let you go, yet, precious...) 

Do not! I will speak like this! And Aramis nuzzles in closer. 

(You're... mm. You're already *quite* good at it.) 

Jason is a *good* teacher, my Papa —

Papa squeezes him harder. 

Mm — my Papa does not wish me to speak of other men while his mighty knot is buried deep inside me?

Papa laughs ruefully — and pulls back enough to lick the sweat from Aramis's face and throat. 

"Oh —" 

"Your Papa — mm. Mm, you taste *perfect*. Your Papa wants to teach you everything about *everything*, even though that's not exactly feasible, logical, or *sane*." 

"Love is not sane!" 

Papa smiles down at him warmly — 

Sweetly and happily and so — 

So lovingly.

"Papa..." 

"You're mine."

"*Yes*, Papa. I will do what *you* say." 

"But you already agreed to be Jason's student, didn't you." 

"I..."

"And you *don't* go back on your *word*." 

"I do not!"

Papa raises his eyebrows. 

"But I must give my mate what he *needs*. This is *proper*." 

Papa rumbles and rumbles and pulls Aramis into a messy, hungry, *lapping* kiss — 

"Oh, yes, Papa, yes —" 

"My precious — my beautiful *precious*." 

"Yours!" 

"What I *need* is for you to take your *place* in this *pack*," Papa says, and licks Aramis's mouth, and his cheeks, and his throat. 

"I — mm — my... place?" 

"That's right, precious. Your special place. The one that's just for you. The one we've all been showing you — or trying to." 

Oh — "I know I have been too slow, too wary and —" 

"Shh, shh," Papa says, and rocks them more — 

"Mm — oh, Papa, that feels so *much* with your big cock still in me!" 

Papa rumbles. "My cock will *be* in you for some time, yet, precious. The swelling on my knot won't go down for at least twenty to thirty minutes — probably a bit more for a mating." 

"Yes, Papa," Aramis says. He is well pleased by this! But — 

"You haven't been too slow." 

"I —" 

"You haven't. Been. Too slow," Papa says *firmly*, and nips Aramis's ear — 

"Yes, Papa, as you *say*, but —" 

"But now you can read *everyone* — in whichever way you'd *like* to read them —" 

"*Oh* — oh, yes!" 

"Yeah, eh? We won't be so *strange*, anymore."

That...

And Papa laughs hard and squeezes him — 

Kisses and *licks* him more — 

"We'll always be strange. You're *absolutely* right."


	11. In the doghouse, *everyone* can hear you scream.

Porthos wakes up for absolutely no reason he can figure — and then he realizes that Aramis is trying to wriggle out of his arms. 

And that *he's* clutching him tighter. 

Right, none of that. Porthos kisses the back of his little precious's neck and releases him — 

"Oh, thank you, my Papa! I must use the chamberpot right now!"

Porthos laughs ruefully. "*Possibly* not the best idea to ply you with wine while I *continued* to have my way with you tonight." 

"This was the best of ideas!" And Aramis weaves a *little* as he moves to the chamberpot, but generally seems all right. 

Porthos gets up and gets some *watered* wine for both of them anyway. "Was it, then?" 

"Oh, yes," Aramis says, and lets fly with a little sigh. "Your family drinks very good wine, my Papa." 

"*Your* family," Porthos says, and moves up behind him. 

"My. My... oh, thank you —" And Aramis takes the glass and drinks deep while he pisses. 

Porthos kisses the top of his head. "You're welcome. Should we get you some food, too? You missed supper..." 

"I —" And Aramis's yawn is jaw-cracking as he finishes pissing. "Oh, pardon me!" 

Porthos laughs and hugs Aramis while he shakes himself off. "You're forgiven, precious. Food?"

"*Sleep*. I — I do not believe I have spent that many times in one — oh, Papa, will it be like that every *time*?" 

Porthos rumbles, takes the glass, sets it down, and then carries Aramis back to the bed — 

"Oh, yes! But —" 

"*But*, by all reports *I've* gotten, we'll be able to be a little bit sane about making love from now on." 

"No!" 

Porthos laughs hard, rolling Aramis over onto his belly and covering him — 

"Oof!" 

Porthos bites the back of that neck — 

"*Ahn* —" 

"A *little* bit sane, I said. You've training to do, remember." 

"Oh — mm. My Papa is very wise," Aramis says, and purrs a little breathlessly. 

Porthos's cock gives a nod to the proceedings. 

"Oh, yes, Papa...?" And Aramis wriggles beneath him *enticingly*. 

Porthos growls — "You're half-asleep, precious —" 

"You will *put* me to sleep, Papa," Aramis says, and rocks up. "You will mark me with your good spend and —" 

And Porthos is already *gripping* Aramis by the back of the neck and the hip — 

Already slipping his cock between his cheeks — 

Already *moving* — 

"Oh, *Papa* —" 

"Do you *like* it?" 

Aramis giggles and writhes in *place* — 

"Oh, fuck —" 

"You have left me very *sensitive*, Papa —" 

"Yeah — oh, yeah —" 

"You must *ease* me —" 

"Fuck fuck — never *leave* me!" 

"Never!" 

And Porthos is shoving into that cleft, thrusting and thrusting and — 

The tip of his cock keeps catching on Aramis's swollen, puffy little *rim* — 

It feels so hot, so sweet, so *good* — 

"It *does*, Papa, it — oh, Papa, you must not stop!" 

Porthos snarls and grips his Aramis tighter, *tighter* — 

*Fucks* that cleft and *aches* — 

Aches to *fill* again — 

Fuck, again and again, and his tongue is lolling — 

He's sweating and *drooling* — 

He's not letting his precious get any *air* — 

Aramis keeps *panting* out yes, hot little *yesses* with every last one of Porthos's rutting *thrusts* — 

He's all but *bucking* — 

The tip is slipping *in* — 

Aramis *clenches* — 

Porthos *clutches* Aramis's whole throat in one hand and *howls* as Aramis gasps and gets nothing, *nothing* — 

Aramis clenches *again* — 

Porthos pulls out and thrusts the tip in *again* — 

(My Papa loves me!) 

And that's all he has, that's all he *is* — 

He's shuddering and aching and holding himself on the *knife*-edge of *slamming* in — 

He won't — 

He *won't* — 

He just rocks and rocks and *rocks* as his little precious *works* the head of his cock and drives him mad, drives him wild, makes him *shift* — 

Just a little — 

Just enough that the claws dig in against Aramis's throat and hip and Porthos's *teeth* lengthen and he sinks — 

In — 

Just a little more, just a little — 

(Papa, *yes*!) 

He *howls*, animal-sharp and desperate, *desperate*, and *pumps* spend right up his little precious's arse. 

It's perfect. 

It's — 

It's bloody *perfect*. 

Especially when he can *think* enough to release Aramis's throat — 

Aramis gasps and purrs and gasps and *purrs* — 

And Porthos doesn't bother shifting his muzzle back before shoving his face in that arse — 

"My *God*!" 

"Hrr..." 

"My — my — *Papa*!" 

Porthos licks and licks and licks *slowly* — 

"Your nose is so *cold* —" 

"Hrr hrr..."

"And you must stop mocking your only — my Papa, are you a *dog* back there?" 

"Not. Quite," Porthos says, chewing the words a bit and shoving his tongue *nice* and deep.

Aramis groans and pushes up on his hands — 

Kicks his *feet* — 

Porthos *grips* his arse with clawed hands and spreads him nice and wide — 

"Oh, *yes*! But Papa, Papa, you can *shift* if you *wish* —" 

Porthos pulls *out* — 

"Nuh! Please!" 

"Not. With thisss. Knot." 

Aramis makes a *strangled* noise — 

Lifts his *arse* — 

(My Papa knows best, of course,) he says, and *rides* Porthos's muzzle as he grunts and groans and — 

Fuck, *purrs* more — 

So much *more* —

Such a good *boy* — 

Porthos *fucks* him with his tongue, does his best to shove his spend even *deeper* with his tongue — 

Tastes them *both* — 

Growls and pulls back to nip — 

To lap and lap and scrape his teeth just a *little* — 

Aramis *howls* and *bucks* — 

Porthos reaches between his legs and *grips* his cock — 

"*Papa*!" 

*Mine*!

"Yes, yours! All yours! Please shove your tongue *deep* again —"

Porthos does just that — 

Aramis goes *rigid* — 

Clenches *tight* — 

And wails *high* as he wets down Porthos's hand, shuddering and shuddering — 

*Sobbing* — 

His cock is *quickly* spasming *dry* — and then he collapses, panting and moaning. 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and licks him. Just... licks him.

Absolutely everywhere. 

He'd done the same thing earlier, but Aramis is all sweaty again *now*. 

Some things are necessary.

By the time he's done, Aramis is dozing and smiling and muttering in one of the languages Porthos has heard some of the Rom people speaking.

Porthos will ask, very nicely, for Aramis to teach him. 

For now, he tucks them in, curls around Aramis, and closes his eyes. 

(Good job, son.) 

*Shit* — 

And then his *entire* pack is snickering and applauding and whistling and yipping — 

Bloody *hell*, don't wake Aramis!

Daddy snickers more. (If you'll note, we put up a wall.) 

I — 

(We thought he might appreciate this, sweet boy,) Mum says, and *also* snickers. 

Porthos scowls. Yeah, well, he won't appreciate it for *long*. You know he — 

(Hates secrets. *Yes*, sweet boy, yes. But you must give us all time to mock you mercilessly. We've been waiting!) 

Porthos puts a pillow over his head. 

(Now, son, when he calls you 'Papa' —) 

I'm not listening to you, Daddy.

(It's just that I'm wondering if I finally have a *grandchild* —)

Porthos *presses* the pillow to his face. Eventually, the smothering may allow him to sleep.


	12. It's all fun and games until the cathouse and doghouse actually merge.

Aramis wakes up feeling *watched* — 

And *sore* — 

And *exhausted* — 

And — happy. Happy. 

And then all the memories come back in a rush, and he opens his eyes and beams and *pounces* — 

And his Papa gasps laughter as he gathers Aramis up and rolls them until Aramis is atop him. "Good *morning*."

"Yes! It is!" 

Papa grins up at him and runs his big, powerful, *wonderful* hands all *over* Aramis — 

So lovingly — 

So *possessively* — 

(You're all mine...) 

Aramis shivers and beams *more*. "This is so!" 

"My beautiful precious. Mm. Thought you were going to sleep all day..." 

"*Oh* —" Aramis blinks. "What time *is* it?" 

"You're just a *couple* of hours later waking up than usual. It's —" 

"Oh, no, we are *late* — *mm* —" 

And Papa *presses* his fingers to Aramis's lips. "*We're* not expected *anywhere* today. And I think you knew that...?"

Aramis blinks more — and remembers. 

And blushes. 

And nods. 

Papa smiles softly. "It's easy to fall into a routine, little precious," he says, and *strokes* Aramis's mouth before moving his fingers. 

"I do not think anything about life here has been *routine*, my Papa!" 

Papa laughs. "Perhaps not. But we *have* routines. Don't we." 

"Mm. Yes, Papa. I..." Aramis smiles ruefully. "I believe I am going to be very hungry very soon. For... for *food*, I mean." 

"You can ask for a tray..." 

"Oh. I..." 

Papa smiles. "Or you could ask someone *else* who lives here..."

And Aramis feels the *weight* of the bond all of a sudden, feels all of the people it *holds* — 

All of the *pack* — 

(*Your* pack now, precious...) 

And. 

Papa is amused. 

Papa is, Aramis knows — *knows*! — waiting for Aramis to demur so that he can be gentle again, so that he can give Aramis more *time*. 

But the time for that is done. 

"Precious —" 

Aramis holds up a hand and — thinks. 

Thinks in a *focused* way — 

(Yes, mon grand...?)

Aramis beams. That was good? I reached for you in the right way?

(That was a *bit* loud — you truly need only think of one of us *lightly* — but you most assuredly had the right idea —) 

I will remember this!

(*Excellent*. Now, what can I do for you this morning?) 

I wish to thank you for your good and helpful teaching!

(I'm *very* glad it *was* helpful, mon grand. But...?)

I also wish... to have a little practice before I reach for my Papa's mother.

Jason laughs *brightly* — 

And so does Papa, as he gathers Aramis close and rocks him a little. 

I do not think this is so strange!

Jason hums. (Oh, no, mon grand, it *isn't*. My sister is a *formidable* woman.)

I never know what she is going to *say*. I never know what *anyone* in this pack is going to say!

(There is that,) Jason says, and — 

And Aramis can feel his warm, fond smile. 

(You might consider taking comfort from that...) 

I...

(Think about it.) 

It — predictable people have not been *worth* me.

(They so rarely are,) Jason says. (With time, you will come to know this pack. You will come to make them *truly* your own, in every way which feels *correct* to you. When that time comes, you *will* be able to predict them — in the ways in which we *understand* those we love.)

And this... makes sense. 

(Good.) 

I am ready now!

Jason laughs again. (Very well, mon grand. But do remember one thing?) 

Yes?

(There is not one person in this pack who does not wish your happiness, your comfort, and your continued presence right *here* —) 

I know this — 

(You haven't let yourself know it. It's all been too strange, too... incomprehensible. You *can* let yourself know it now, via *multiple* means, and I recommend that you do so. You're safe.)

Aramis blinks — and nods thoughtfully, dragging his cheek against Papa's collarbone. This, too, makes sense. 

(I'm very glad.) 

Thank you again for your teaching, Jason!

(You're *welcome*. Until later,) Jason says, and Aramis feels the connection between them... change. 

He studies that change, tries to — 

No, it was a sort of dimming, as if they had *both* walked away from the lone candle in an otherwise dark room. 

Aramis will remember this, too. 

Papa rumbles at him. "You're doing so well, precious. At *everything*." 

Aramis purrs. "I have had *good* teachers!"

Papa laughs ruefully. "It *is* hard, you know?" 

"What? What is hard?" 

"*Letting* Jason teach you." 

"Oh..." Papa so rarely *repeats* himself — 

Papa pulls back to look down into his eyes. "I want everything with you, precious. Jason is the *best* person to teach you what you need to know about your kind of magic, but I still *want* to be the one to do it." 

"Oh, *Papa* —" 

"Shh. You'll have him, and I'll be a *good* Papa and make sure you *always* have him." 

Aramis throws his arms around Papa's neck. "You must not be hurt!" 

"I'm not, not *really*. I just want you with me *all* the time," Papa says, and smiles wryly. "It's a damned good thing I'm a lieutenant now and won't be riding out *too* often. It's going to be hard to *leave* you, little precious." 

And Aramis remembers what Papa had said about the mating allowing them to be a *little* bit sane about their love. He nods thoughtfully again. 

"Precious?" 

"This is *well*, my Papa," he says, and wriggles closer. 

"Is it?" 

"Yes! We love each other *properly*, as mates *should*." 

Papa rumbles and rumbles — 

Licks Aramis's face *thoroughly* — 

Aramis turns up into it — 

Papa rumbles *more* — 

(I'm *waiting*,) *Amina* says — 

In their *minds* —

Papa coughs and pulls back — 

Aramis licks his *lips* — Ah...

It is a curious sensation — emotion? — to *feel* a woman tapping her foot and crossing her arms under her breasts in one's mind. 

(Yeah, she does that,) Papa says. (Mum, go *easy* —) 

No, no, my Papa, it is *well*. I have made your — *our* family wait. That is wrong, and I — 

But then he can't *think*, because he has been *flattened* to the bed, and Papa is kissing him — 

Kissing him so deeply, so *hard* — 

(I *love* you, I love you so *much* —) 

Oh, Papa — my *Papa* — 

(I'll never let you *go*, precious,) Papa says, licking his way *out* of Aramis's mouth and down over his chin, his jaw, his throat — 

His *chest* — 

He bites Aramis's *nipples* — 

Yes, Papa, but — 

Amina clears her throat. 

(*Shit*. Mum —) 

(He is *hungry*!) 

(Oh — *fuck* —) And Papa licks Aramis's belly twice. It *feels* like an apology even before Aramis can see his rueful expression. 

Aramis smiles helplessly and pets Papa's hair — 

Strokes through it — 

And *focuses*. Good morning, Madame — 

Amina clears her throat again. 

And *looks* at Aramis. 

Aramis can *feel* — 

Papa laughs and kneels up, scrubbing a hand down over his face. "Yeah, that 'Madame' isn't going to cut it anymore. Try again, precious." 

Aramis licks his lips — 

Thinks about it — no. 

No. Honesty. *Always* honesty with this family. *His* family, now — 

*Both* Papa and Amina are rumbling — 

And being able to feel it *inside* himself is — 

It's not so different, really, from the feel of his mother's hand in his hair, tugging firmly as she held him *tight*. 

(Oh, precious boy... I believe I see,) Amina says, and — 

There is a sensation of being stroked — 

Of being held *spiritually* —

So close and *warm* —

(I will not pressure you on *this* point,) she says. 

I... it is only... I have had *one* Maman. I have not thought of having another.

(Of course not. I — and Marie-Angelique, with whom I have been having a *quiet* tug-o-war over you — should've *thought*.) 

You. 

(You are a *very* attractive young man.) 

Marie-Angelique wishes to... make me her *son*? 

(She has the strange idea that you will be more comfortable in *her* home,) Amina says, and *looks* at him again. 

Aramis coughs. I — I... 

Papa snickers. (Mum.) 

(*What*?) 

(Aunt Marie-Angelique's house has *cats*.) 

(He didn't even *meet* the cats! They hid from him!) 

(Athos said that *Thomas* said they were *eating* and then *napping*. Like cats *do*.) 

Amina growls. (We can have cats!) 

Porthos guffaws —

(Precious boy, would you like a cat?) 

Porthos wipes tears from his eyes — 

Aramis — blinks. 

And licks his lips — 

And thinks about it — Yes. Yes, I would like a cat. 

"Wait, wait, what?"

(Then you will have a cat —) 

"*Wait* —" 

We will make certain my cat gets along well with dogs?

(Of *course*, precious boy —) 

"Hold *on* —" 

(*No*.) 

(Mum —) 

"My Papa." And Aramis looks up at him firmly. "You wish me to be happy and secure and comfortable for all of my days, yes?" 

"Oh fuck. Wait, let me ask Thomas where to get a nice, friendly, dog-loving cat —" 

Aramis beams. 

Amina cackles — 

And Aramis feels Papa *dim* inside him for the first time since he had bitten him. 

It's a disturbing sensation, but Aramis recognizes the use for keeping conversations separate and even, eventually, private. 

He will have *Papa* teach him how to do it. 

(Good boy,) Amina says, and strokes him again. (You must always give your mate things like this, when you can.) 

Yes, Amina!

(Hrr. *Good*. And I have already sent for a tray for the two of you. Eat well, and do not hesitate to have Porthos *heal* you, precious boy.) 

I... 

(I know. You wish to keep the soreness. The many *different* sorenesses!) 

Yes! They are so good! I feel so well-*used*. 

(I understand this *well*, precious boy. *But*. You are *going* to want Porthos to *fuck* you again — and again, and *again* — and he will want the *same*. And he will need his *control* to heal you enough that such a thing is *possible*.) 

And Aramis thinks of having to call in a member of their family to heal him *while* they're making love — 

When Papa is moments away from *entering* him — 

Aramis *winces* — 

And Amina laughs hard. (Yes, precious boy. *Avoid* that. None of us would *mind* helping... but I believe you would *both* mind *being* helped.) 

I — yes, Amina. Thank you.

(You are *welcome*. I...) She caresses him again. 

Amina? 

(We wish to adopt you. *Formally*.) 

Aramis shivers, but — but. 

This was coming. 

This was the next logical *step* —

(It does *not* need to happen right away, precious boy.)

When do *you* wish it to happen? When does *Treville*?

Amina laughs more. (*Days* ago.) 

I am done with *waiting*, Amina. 

She strokes him and squeezes him *tightly*. (You will have to call us... other things, in public —) 

I know this thing! And...

(Yes...?) She strokes him more. 

And I... want that. I want that *push*, Amina. To *help* me stop waiting for... the last things I am waiting for. 

She rumbles deeply — 

*Heavily* — 

The link with Papa flares *bright* and he rumbles, too — 

They *flood* him with their *love* — 

And he can feel — 

He can feel it all. 

And take it for himself.


	13. Oh, Aramis, there are so many good times ahead for you.

Porthos pets the purring, sweaty boy sprawled out on top of him and tries to *comprehend* how lucky he is. 

How *impossibly* lucky — 

He rumbles and strokes and brushes the lank waves of Aramis's hair back from his face — 

Aramis wriggles — 

Grunts and *clenches* around Porthos's slowly, *slowly* shrinking knot — 

Grunts more and *giggles* — 

Porthos grins and strokes Aramis's mouth — 

Aramis kisses his *fingers* — 

"Love you, precious..." 

"I love *you*, my Papa!" And Aramis kisses Porthos's fingers again and again and *again*. 

Porthos rumbles and *squeezes* Aramis with his other arm. "Would you like a little wine? I can reach..." 

"No, my Papa. I — mm. I am drunk on *you*!" 

"Oh, precious, I've been drunk on you since the night we *met*." 

"And I am good on your cock?" 

Porthos laughs. "You're *incredible* on my cock. You — *mm*. I need it. I need *you*." 

"Even though I do not ride you well enough, yet?" 

Porthos blinks — "What? What's that about?" 

"You always take *over*, Papa. You always move me *yourself*." 

Well, that's true. "Do you not like that, precious?" 

"I do! Very much! But *you* said —" 

"I said that being *ridden* was one of my favourite things — right, got it," Porthos says, and squeezes Aramis. 

"*Mm* —" 

"I wasn't telling you a story, precious — I *do* love it —" 

"I know this thing!" 

"I just *also* love — *really* love — *moving you on my cock*. Just... fuck, it's amazing." 

"Oh. Yes?" 

"*Yes*," Porthos says, and laughs. "You feel *perfect* in my *hands* when I'm moving you. When I'm *making* you ride me just the way I want —" 

"When you are... controlling me?" 

"Oh, *precious*. *Yes*." 

Aramis wriggles and pushes up on his hands on Porthos's chest. "You must do this all the time!" 

"Well." 

"Well? What well!" 

Porthos grins at his beautiful boy. "I can control you when I'm fucking you other *ways*, precious." 

"Oh. *Oh*. Tell me! Tell me now!" 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles — 

Flexes his knot just to see — 

"*Ee* — oh, *Papa* —" 

"You're so *beautiful* — mm. Right. Well, we'll be able to detach in *just* a bit, but for now it's storytime." 

"Yes!" 

"*One* thing I'd dearly love to try is having you on your hands and knees, precious..." 

"Oh — is that more proper?" 

Porthos wags a gentle finger. "I told you, precious. No hard and fast rules." 

"Yes, but —" 

"But, yeah, you're right, it *would* be more proper for the dog in me." 

Aramis shivers. "Will you *have* me as the dog?" 

Porthos studies his precious — and nods. "I will, yeah. Once we get you more stretched." 

Aramis *moans*. "Your dog is very... big?" 

"My dog's *cock* is actually smaller than mine, precious —" 

"Oh — but then —" 

"I'm rougher when I'm the dog. More aggressive. Less *careful*. I could tear you *easily* if you weren't prepared," Porthos says, and *looks* at Aramis. 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. "You must make me *ready* for your dog." 

"That's right. And we're doing that right now — in a *few* ways." 

Aramis giggles again and clenches *hard* — 

"Oh fuck — uh — *unh* —" 

"My Papa is shrinking so *much* — I must keep him entertained!" 

"Oh, *really*." 

"Oh, yes! I must make the fires of our mating burn hot!" 

"You set the *world* on fire, precious..." 

Aramis parts his lips — and grins. "My Papa loves me!" 

"Yes he *does*. Now let me tell you what I'll *do* once I have you on your hands and knees..." 

"Oh — *oh*. And *not* give me your dog?" 

"Not just then. See, that position makes a lot of things *easier*, precious. Rocking you back and forth and back and forth on my cock? Making you take *everything* I want to give you? That's not even one lick of effort for me in that position. Sometimes I'll knot someone in that position and fuck them *twice*. *Once* I went *three* times —" 

"Oh, *Papa*!" 

"Yeah? You want that, precious?" 

"Yes! I want it right *now*!" 

Porthos rumbles. "That can be *arranged* just as soon as I shrink a *little* more — and *heal* you — " 

"Was it Athos?" 

"Mm? Oh. Yeah, precious. That was an *eventful* day." 

"Tell me what happened!" 

Porthos laughs ruefully. 

"Oh, tell me!" 

"Absolutely. Athos and I were just talking about it — a little — the other day, actually." 

"Oh, yes?" 

"Yeah. It was when he was talking me out of being stupid with *you*. Talking me out of *hiding* from you." 

"Oh..." 

"See, I was saying that boys could be too excitable and out of control when it came to sex, and that I didn't trust myself around you if *you* got out of control —" 

"You have the *best* control!" 

"I've been keeping myself on a *strong* lead, precious," Porthos says, and laughs wryly. "And tossing myself off a *lot*. But you're right that I have more control than —" 

"All!" 

"*Many*." 

Aramis glares at him, scents going all prickly and — 

"... most?" 

Aramis narrows his eyes. 

Porthos laughs hard. "Right, you're right, I have *excellent* self-control —" 

"Yes!" 

"And I *will* not disparage it —" 

"Not ever!" 

"And I will *wait* to apologize until I'm told to —" 

"*Good*!" 

"Are we set?" 

Aramis looks thoughtful for a moment — and then nods. 

Porthos grins. "Where were we?" 

"You were talking to Athos about the self-control of *boys* when it comes to sex! What did you say? What did you tell him?" 

"I *reminded* him what happened the day I was over to their house when we were both fourteen, and it was *high* summer, and hot as a *bastard*. Hot enough that Aunt Marie-Angelique was *sweating*." 

"I..." 

"See, I *think* you know *very* well that just about anything can set a young man off when it comes to needing to get his ashes hauled —" 

"*Yes*, my Papa, but —" 

"*But*, when that young man is a shifter, he *may* find himself drowning in the scents of *salt* and *musk* and *sweetness* and *tang* —" 

"My *Papa*! Was Marie-Angelique *aroused*?" 

"Well, I've tried *very* hard not to ask myself that question, precious, by which I mean: Yes, yes, she was, because she was giving Uncle Laurent *those* looks *all* through breakfast, and —" Porthos snorts and shakes his head. "As Athos reminded *me*, he was limping for *days* after that afternoon. And evening." 

"My Papa, are you *attracted* to her?" 

"Well, I had to ask myself that question." 

"Yes!" 

"I mean, I *wasn't* thinking about her once I had my face *properly* buried in Athos's — Olivier's then — arse, but then I was riding home with Daddy, and he was giving me these *looks*. The whole *pack* knew what Athos and I had been up to, of course, and they knew that *that* day we were more excitable than usual. 

"So I confessed. Blurted out everything." 

"Oh, yes? What did Treville say?" 

And Porthos just has to pet Aramis a little — 

Stroke his hair and *squeeze* him for the way he's getting used to all this — 

For the way he's *making* himself get used to all of this — 

Using everyone's *names* — 

Porthos *rumbles* — 

"Oh, Papa —" 

"Right, right, I'll tell you. He said what I'm saying now, basically. *Anything will set a young man off*. He reminded me of all the times moving through a busy market had been *fraught* for me just lately, because there'd be a woman on her monthlies, or a randy boy somewhere, and I could *smell* them, and it would just drive me *insane*. He reminded me that I was growing into a fine young man, but that I'd always be a *dog*, too. He said, 'and this is *one* of the reasons why we've been teaching you how to keep your lead *tight* from the time you could understand us, son.'" 

Aramis nods thoughtfully — and then frowns. 

"Mm?" 

"I do not — have this." 

"Have what?" 

"I have, of course, had random erections! And my dreams have made me spend again and again — this is one of the reasons why the priests caned me!" 

Porthos *snarls* — 

"Oh, Papa, no, no, you killed *all* of them. All is well!" 

"I want to go to *every* sphere they *exist* on and kill them." 

Aramis beams. "And you will take your boy? Yes?" 

"And Athos, too. The two of you can make a *big* mess together." 

Aramis beams *maniacally*. "I love you, my Papa!" 

"I love *you* —" 

"But I was saying — I did not feel 'set off' by random *people*." 

Porthos blinks. "Not *ever*?" 

"No, my Papa. All the people I have grown hard for have at least *seemed* worthwhile — and appropriate. Or... appropriate in their *way*," Aramis says, and smiles wryly. "The *priests* — or the people themselves — would not always think so." 

Porthos nods. "*Got* it. You're maybe more like Athos?" 

"No." 

"You're sure about that?" 

"I do not think I know how Athos *works*, my Papa! *I* work by..." Aramis shakes his head. "I see an attractive person, and they seem intelligent and worthy! I grow hard! Later, they prove themselves *unworthy*, and I regret my bad taste. Athos — Athos seems to have endless time to *debate* the worthiness of a person!" 

"Well — that's true," Porthos says, and laughs hard. "I don't know how he works, *either*." 

"He *told* me you were not satisfied by his answers..." 

"I was so *confused*. At first I thought he didn't *like* women, so I thought to take him to men's and boys' brothels, but he didn't want to go to those, *either*. So I asked him what was what, and he tried to explain it to me, and I was just *lost*." 

"I would have been, too! And you were already together, already making love —" 

"That's right, *all* the time. He'd proven time and time again that everything *worked* right, that he liked all *sorts* of lovemaking — he's an *incredibly* passionate man, precious." 

"Oh, yes?" 

"*Absolutely*. You're going to *enjoy* him. But —" 

"I..." And Aramis wriggles.

"Mm?" 

Aramis licks his *lips* — 

"What is it, precious?" 

Aramis looks at him from under his *lashes* — and Porthos gets it. 

Porthos *rumbles*. "Oh, precious. You're ready. Aren't you." 

Aramis's heart beats faster — 

His eyes are so *bright* — 

So *hopeful* — 

"Precious, precious... you have to tell me you want it." 

"I want it!" 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and flexes — 

"Oh — oh, I am ready for you to pull out, my Papa!" 

"Yeah. You are," Porthos says, and *lifts* Aramis off his cock, slowly and gently. 

Aramis moans. "My Papa is good, my Papa is *good*." 

Porthos lays Aramis down and sniffs him, enjoys him for a moment — 

Licks — 

Licks *some* of the spend from his thighs — 

"Oh, Papa — will we call?" And Aramis sits up on his elbows.

"Yeah, we will. Now," he says, and looks up. "Reach for him, precious. Reach for your *brother*." 

Aramis *moans* — and obeys immediately, reaching *eagerly* for Athos — 

(I'm down the hall in your study for... no reason whatsoever?) 

Aramis blinks.

Porthos *snorts* — 

(I may have mentioned being somewhat eager.) 

Aramis makes a face like he's concentrating *deeply* — 

(Oh... Aramis. Did you mean to caress me?) 

Aramis beams. (*Yes*, big brother!) 

Athos *grunts* — (Porthos.) 

Yeah, Porthos says. *Touch* him. 

Athos growls and *grips* Aramis in the shared soul-space, stroking and holding him and — (Please. Call me to you.)

Aramis is panting *hard* — 

His eyes are *dazed* — 

But his smile never fades. (Please come! Please *come*!)


	14. Taking his place.

Aramis shivers and shivers and — 

And he must control himself. 

He *must* — 

"No. No, you don't have to control yourself, at all," Papa says, picking him up again and lifting him onto his lap — back to his front this time. 

"But Papa —" 

"*We're* going to control you." 

"*Fuck* —" 

Papa rumbles a *laugh* —

Spreads Aramis over his lap — 

Licks and licks Aramis's ear — 

"Papa — Papa —" 

"Go on, *curse* again." 

"Oh. My Papa likes this?" 

And Athos walks in with such a *hungry* look in his eyes — "Your Papa wants every word out of your mouth, Aramis... but especially the filthy ones." 

Aramis *moans* — "This is so?" 

"*Oh*, yeah," Papa says, and *nips* Aramis ear. "Now *curse*." 

"I — I want to be fucked again!" 

"By whom...?" And Athos is beginning to *strip*. 

Aramis groans and *blushes* — 

And Papa cups Aramis's chin and forces him to meet Athos's eyes — Aramis doesn't even remember looking *down*! 

He — "Papa —" 

"We'll get *all* those reflexes out of you, precious. Now answer Athos's question." 

Aramis whimpers — 

Watches Athos *bare* himself — 

He is not doing it *slowly* — 

"Why would I?" And Athos smiles *hotly* — 

Aramis's cock *jerks* — "I want to be fucked by both of you! Very — very *hard*. If that is *well*, Papa!" 

Papa licks a long stripe from Aramis's jaw to his temple — 

And then again on the other side — 

Aramis has learned that this is another kind of marking — 

Aramis has learned to love this as he loves so many other *things* — 

"That's my precious. My perfect, beautiful... mm. I think we're going to teach you to get your mouth fucked today, precious," Papa says.

"Oh, yes!" 

Athos laughs softly — he is down to his loosened breeches and his hair-tie. "I'm shocked that you're not ready to let me have his arse, brother. Positively *stunned*." 

"You shut it —" 

"No, no, this is something that could revolutionize —" 

Papa growls and tightens his *grip* on Aramis, jaw and hip — 

And Athos laughs more — baring his throat. "But I think we should *discuss* what I can and can't have once I'm on that bed, brother. I am... hungry." 

"Mm. I —" Papa loosens his grip — 

Moves the hand he'd had on Aramis's jaw to his other hip — 

Sniffs Aramis's hair — "You have a point." 

Athos nods and removes his hair-tie, tossing it casually — and accurately — to the bureau. He leaves his breeches. 

He — 

There is a *wet* spot already — 

They are *bulging* — 

"Hm. I was *going* to ask you if you were still well, Aramis, but..." And Athos's voice is *amused* — 

Aramis looks *up* — "I —" 

"Our little precious has *needs*, brother." 

"Our? And I believe you're right, brother." 

Aramis's heart beats faster — 

*Faster* —

But he trusts his Papa, and he trusts Athos. He will wait.

He will — 

He will wait and see what they *say*. 

Papa licks him again. "Good boy," he says. "We'll *always* take care of you, precious." 

"Yes, Papa," Aramis says, pressing back against him — 

Taking his warmth, his comfort — 

"Here's how it works, brother," Papa says, and strokes up and down Aramis's sides. "Aramis is mine. *All* mine — now and forever." 

"Agreed," Athos says, and stands almost at *attention*. He is focused and sure and — 

And utterly uncaring about his *arousal* — 

"I wouldn't say that, Aramis," Athos says, and smiles at him. "But give us a moment." 

Aramis moans. "Yes. Yes, big brother." 

Athos's eyes flare in entirely *human* ways — 

He licks his *lips* — 

"That brings us to my next point," Papa says, and keeps stroking Aramis — 

"Does it? I'm all ears," Athos says, and stares at *him* for a moment longer before lifting his gaze back to Papa. 

Papa laughs. "Yeah. I *get* that, brother." 

"I'm very glad you do —" 

"He's *mine*." 

"I would never try to —"

"But... he's also your little brother," Papa says, and pulls Aramis into an *arch* — for Athos. 

Aramis *pants* — 

And Athos growls softly. "I need that very badly." 

"It's yours," Papa says. "He's *given* it to you — and I'd never take it away." 

"I wonder," Athos says. 

"Mm?" 

"I wonder... if I might give him other things. *More* things."

Aramis is... very, very hard. 

*Aching*, and — 

Papa rumbles. "Do you feel him needing you, brother?" 

"Yes." 

"Do you feel him aching at the *thought* of what you might give him —" 

"*Yes*. I — tell me what I can have, brother. Please." 

Papa rumbles more. "Tell me what you want to *give* him. Tell us *both*," he says, and strokes over Aramis's chest — 

Pinches Aramis's nipples — 

Aramis gasps — 

Arches *more* — 

"Oh, that's perfect, precious..." 

"Thank you — thank you, Papa!" 

"I want." Athos growls. "You are not the only one who has longed for more... responsibility, Porthos." 

"Speak plain. We're laying out *all* our cards —" 

"I *want* him. And I want to know how *much* parenting he desires." 

Aramis *grunts* —

And Athos looks at him — 

*Into* him — 

"I can give you... more than brotherhood, Aramis," Athos says, and his voice is low and firm. "If that is what you want, and your Papa allows it." 

Aramis pants — 

Tries to *think* — 

He can't. He can't — he can't even *imagine* — 

"But we need you to, precious," Papa says, and he sounds almost breathless. "We need you to think about what you want..." 

"Oh, Papa... you. You will share me? You will share me *this* way?" 

Papa *rocks* up against Aramis's arse — 

He is so *hard* already — 

So *hot* — 

"Papa... Papa, am I *your* boy?" 

Papa growls and drops his hands to Aramis's hips — 

Grips them *tight* — 

"You'll *always* be mine, precious. I'll never let you *go*." 

"But you wish to... to..." 

"I want everything, precious. I want to make you mine in every *way* — including those ways where I share you with exactly who I *want* to share you with. Where I put you in your *place*." 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"Mm. My precious didn't think about it that way..." 

"No, Papa, but I like it! I want it!" 

Papa rumbles. "You'll have it. You'll *have* it. But there's something else." 

"Yes? Yes, Papa?" And Aramis cranes his neck to try to see Papa better — 

But Papa turns him to face Athos again, who is staring at them both so *hungrily*. "You can have more, precious. *While* you're being put in your place."

Athos parts his lips — 

Aramis's cock *jerks* — "Please — please tell me!" 

"Athos," Papa says. Just that. 

Athos nods once. "An older brother can guide. Teach. *Shape* the life and mind and world of a younger brother. But we both know that brothers can be resisted, Aramis. Disobeyed. Put out of *mind*." 

"No —" 

"*Yes*." 

Aramis grunts — but. He has done this thing. He has *shown* this thing to his Athos. "Yes — yes, Athos. I apologize." 

Athos nods again. "You're forgiven. This is difficult ground to navigate at the best of times, and we are all distracted and *hungry*. Aren't we." 

"Yes, Athos." 

Athos stares at him for a long moment — and then breathes deep and moves closer at *last*. 

"Oh, please —" 

"Shh. I would like to give you *my* control, Aramis," Athos says, and lifts Aramis's chin on his fingertips. "My *absolute* control."

Aramis pants — "I — and. My Papa would allow this?" 

Papa rumbles. "His absolute control... would still be under *my* control, precious." 

Aramis *moans* — 

He is already on his knees, but he wants to be on his *hands* and knees — 

*Lower* — 

Athos narrows his eyes. "That could be arranged. Give us your answer." 

"What... what would you have me *call* you?" 

Athos stares at Aramis's *mouth* — 

For a *long* time — 

His blue eyes are so *hot* — 

"Please —" 

"I would be a terrible liar if I didn't admit that I was jealous of you allowing Porthos to be your Papa —" 

"*Oh* —" 

"— but I know that is *not* for me. Perhaps I could be, instead, your Master." 

And there is heat there, and *desire* — 

Athos has *hungered* for this — but. 

Aramis frowns. 

"Yeah, brother, our precious didn't buy that," Papa says, and laughs — 

"I — Porthos —" 

"You want *more* from me, my Athos!"

"I want *everything* from you! I —" 

"He doesn't want to be *grasping*, precious..." 

"Oh, no!" 

"He doesn't want to stick his muzzle in where it doesn't *belong* —" 

"Porthos, you're *possessive* —" 

"I am, brother. I *absolutely* am — and I'll never let my little precious *go*. But he *knows* that. He can *feel* it — my way *and* his way. And he can also feel *you*." 

Athos shudders and *grips* Aramis's chin. "Tell me. Tell me what you feel." 

And Aramis realizes that he'd been using his power to study Athos from the moment he walked *in* — 

That he'd touched and *taken* — 

"Tell him, precious. Do it now." 

"Yes, Papa! I feel your *hunger*, Athos. I feel your ache for both of us — it is making *me* ache *more* —" 

Athos growls, fingers *shaking* on Aramis's chin — "More. Is there more?" 

"I feel. I feel your need for me. For me in *particular*." 

"*Yes*. *More*." 

Aramis flushes hard — "You love me," he says, quietly and *firmly* — 

Athos leans *in* — and stops. 

*Papa* growls — "Do it, brother. Let me *see*." 

Athos pants and closes his eyes — but opens them again before he kisses Aramis *hard* — 

Aramis opens for it, *takes* it the way he has taken Papa's kisses — 

Athos *groans* — 

Pushes *both* hands into Aramis's hair and *yanks* Aramis's head back — 

And the kiss gets even harder, *deeper* — 

So good — 

So *good* — 

(Your mouth is soft. Beautiful. *Tempting*,) Athos says, and *fucks* Aramis's mouth with his tongue — 

Holds his head in *place* — 

(I've been at war with myself to decide whether I long to see it framed with hair or to have you clean-shaven for the rest of your days.) 

Aramis *blinks* — 

Athos is still *fucking* his mouth — 

(I have no intention of stopping just yet. Though I've longed to fuck it more thoroughly. More *deeply*.)

Please — 

And, abruptly, Aramis's mind is filled with images of Athos with his *cock* in Aramis's mouth — 

Athos resting his cock on Aramis's lip — 

Athos pushing in so *slowly* — 

Athos *opening* Aramis's mouth with his cock — 

Athos fucking Aramis's mouth so hard, so fast, so — 

And Papa is there in the last two, holding Aramis's hips and sinking into Aramis's arse with *his* cock — 

Aramis blushes and shivers. Both of them... at the same time. 

He can have this. 

He can *have* this!

(Imminently,) Athos says, licking out of Aramis's mouth, and moving to his throat. (I'd know your Papa had healed you multiple times by looking at your lovely throat alone...) 

Aramis blinks — "I — yes?" 

Athos *kisses* Aramis's throat, and it's immediately clear that it's right on one of the bruises Papa had left. 

Aramis moans and *offers* — 

Athos growls and *sucks* kisses, kiss after kiss after *kiss* — 

"Please!" 

(We both love *making* love to beautiful throats, Aramis. Yours is far too *un*marked for nearly two days with your Papa...) 

Aramis groans and *whimpers* — 

(Three bite-scars, only *two* bruises... we have work to do, brother...)

"Please, I am so *hard* — UNGH —" 

And Papa rumbles a laugh as his fingers tangle with Athos's own on Aramis's cock. "You can have what you *want*, precious," he says, and he and Athos twine their hands together and start to *stroke* him — 

"Please — *please* —" 

Athos *bites* him — 

"AHN —" 

Athos growls and bites all *over* Aramis's throat — 

"Yes! Oh, yes! Please more —" 

"*Wait*," Papa says — and Athos pulls *back*! 

They stop *stroking* him!

"Oh, Papa, please, please —" 

"Shh, shh, precious, we won't let go of your pretty cock..." 

"No. We *won't*," Athos says, and his eyes are *starved* — 

Everything about him is *starved* — 

(Your sweat makes my tongue curl and my cock *throb*.) 

"*Hnh* —" 

"Ease it back there, brother," Papa says. "Precious needs to think for just a little bit longer." 

Athos squeezes his eyes shut for a moment — and nods. "Please. Please do think about *precisely* what you want from me." 

"Everything I can *have* — *mm*!" 

And those are Papa's fingers pressed to his mouth. "We've been dancing around the issue — too much. But we can't anymore. 'Everything you can have' with Athos includes *parenting*, precious. I *would* share that with him, because he's my brother and my lover and my partner and about a million other things, but *mostly* because *you* deserve to have something exactly that good. If you *want* it." 

And Aramis can feel... so much desire. Lust, yes, and hunger, and need for pleasure and *his* pleasure, but also desire to make things *correct*. *Need* to make things correct for all of them, so that all of them can be *happy*. 

He can feel it from all of them. 

He can all but *taste* it.

He can — 

It feels like something he can shape in his *hands*, something he can change into something new — if it were not already so perfect. 

So — warm. 

There is only *one* answer. 

He reaches up to gently tug Papa's fingers away from his mouth — 

Aramis can feel them *waiting* *patiently*, even though he can also feel that they *know* what he will say. 

That *they* feel *him*. 

Aramis flushes and cups Papa's mussed beard with one hand and reaches to stroke and pet Athos's cheek with the other. 

"Love you, precious..." 

Athos turns and kisses his palm. "I love you, as well." 

Aramis shivers and smiles and nods. "I love you *both*, and I want this. I want to be *shared* this way. I want my Papa and his brother to *have* me this way. Have me *always*."

Athos sighs — and *licks* Aramis's palm from the heel to his fingertips. "You'll have everything, Aramis. *Everything*." 

Aramis wriggles and *needs* — but. "I... I do not know what to call you, my Athos. There are no other *good* words for this, not for me. Do... do either of you have *suggestions*?" 

Athos and Papa share a rueful look, and then Papa says: "Well, you speak more languages than both of us, precious, so I'm going to go with *no* on that. But..." 

"But words, while wonderful, are not necessarily... necessary," Athos says, and he and Papa *squeeze* Aramis's cock — 

"*Oh* —" 

"Go on, precious. Call him *your* Athos again. See what happens." 

Aramis pants — 

Stares *up* at Athos, who is gleaming down at him almost as if Aramis is *prey* — 

"My Athos, you look as though you wish to devour me as much as *Papa* does." 

"I do," Athos says, yanking Aramis's head back to Papa's shoulder and *biting* again — 

"AHN —" 

Biting so *hard* — 

Aramis can't help but buck into their *fists* — 

(Be *still*, my Aramis.) 

Aramis grunts and *drops* onto Papa's lap — 

"There's a precious," Papa says, and licks Aramis's temple — 

(Yes. *Good* boy,) Athos says, and bites him again — 

"Please —" 

They *squeeze* him again — 

"Oh, *please*!" 

(Please what, Aramis. Be specific,) Athos says, and bites — 

And bites — 

And *bites* — 

Aramis sobs and *shakes* — 

Tries not to *move* — 

"That's right, precious. You just stay right here and tell us what you *need*," Papa says, and they squeeze him *again* — 

"Nah — *ahn* — please, that! That!" 

Athos growls into his *neck* — 

Papa rumbles — 

(You'd like for us to keep squeezing your beautiful cock, Aramis...?) 

"Yes, my Athos, yes —" And then Aramis is *screaming*, because they squeeze him so *viciously* — 

He's leaking so *much* — 

His cock is trying to *spasm* — 

He can't toss his head because Athos is holding him by the *hair* too tightly — 

And Papa's cock jerks under Aramis's arse. "I think we ought to *stroke* him like this, brother..." 

Athos growls again — 

Bites and bites — 

Bites behind Aramis's *ear* — 

"*Yes*!" 

Papa laughs and starts to rock up against Aramis's arse. "*You* always go off like artillery when I do you that way, brother."

Aramis *focuses* — 

And Papa laughs harder. "And I just gave precious *ideas*." 

Athos groans and pulls *back*. "You want that, Aramis? My Aramis. You want to stroke me until I spend?" 

Aramis *whimpers* — "My Athos, I want — I want to make you spend in every way that's *allowed*!" 

Athos *pants* — 

Stares *into* him — 

"Now, brother. *Now*, *please*," Athos says, and he and Papa are stroking Aramis — 

Stroking him without easing their *grip* — 

It's so tight — 

It's so *hot*, so — 

So *fiery* with their *calluses* — 

"Oh, precious, I will *never* get tired of you writhing on my lap..." 

"His grace is — perfection —" 

"Were you watching through my eyes when I had him riding my cock, brother?" 

"You didn't let him *move*." 

Papa laughs hard — 

And Athos winks at *him*, and Aramis *wants* to have something good to say, something *intelligent*, but Papa is *moving* him with his laugh — 

And Papa and Athos are *working* him with their hands — 

Their calluses — so rough! 

They are *hurting* him and making him harder all at once, and it feels so good, so right, so — 

"Give in, my Aramis..." 

Yes — 

"Give us everything, little precious..." 

Oh, yes, oh, yes — 

"You *must* give us everything," Athos says — 

Aramis grunts and struggles to stay still, to keep from *bucking* — 

"You have no *choice* in the matter, precious..." 

Aramis *shouts* — 

His cock is jerking in their *hands* — 

His balls are drawing up — 

He wants them to hurt his balls, *too* — 

"Happily," Athos says, and *grips* Aramis's balls — 

Aramis *screams* — 

"Little precious turned his nails on those..." 

"Did he." 

"He was dreaming of my *calluses*, brother." 

"Aching for them, I daresay. Let's —" 

"Yeah," Papa says, and they squeeze him even *tighter*, cock *and* balls, and Aramis is shuddering, sweating, panting, sweating *more* — 

*Sobbing* — 

"Oh, that's perfect, precious —" 

"Every sound you make makes me hungrier for you, Aramis," Athos says, and starts to *pump* Aramis's balls — 

Aramis whimpers and *shouts* — 

Struggles to stay still — 

And then Papa grips Aramis's hip with his other hand and *holds* him still again, holds him *steady* — 

Aramis moans and falls *into* it — 

Into *everything* — 

His whole body is hot, loose, *ready* — 

Everything — 

Everything about him is *needy* — 

"Oh, good boy —" 

"Perfect, beautiful —" 

"Gorgeous —" 

"Will you spend for us, my Aramis?" 

"— spend right bloody —" 

"— need your spend all over my *hand*, Aramis —" 

"— your *scents* — *do* it!" 

And Aramis can feel himself gasping — 

Feel himself making — 

Making *some* kind of sound — but then he *is* spending, spurting for his Papa and his Athos, giving them — 

Giving them *everything* —

"Oh, that *sound* —" 

"He wails like a child, and I feel like the biggest deviant on *earth* —" 

"That's probably still your father. Probably." 

"Mate, I know exactly what *your* father told you when it came time to give you your education in sex." 

"I —" 

"I know *when* he decided it was time, too." 

"You don't *not* have a point..."

Papa snickers and rocks Aramis, licks him — 

Aramis moans and tries to regain the ability to *see* — and the first thing he can focus on is Athos licking his spend from his own hand before turning to *Papa's* hand. Aramis shivers and moans *more* —

And Athos looks up and narrows his eyes in a hot smile. "You're a delicious young man." 

"I've been doing my best to hammer that lesson home, brother, but I'm always glad for assistance," Papa says, and pushes two slick fingers into Athos's *mouth*. 

Athos's lashes flutter — 

He *slurps* — 

He *pumps* Aramis's balls again — 

Aramis *groans* — and all hope of softening goes very far away. 

"Well, no, precious, you *might* soften after I heal you again." 

Athos's eyes *fly* open in *alarm* — 

And Papa snickers. "We *won't* let that last, brother," he says, and pulls out. 

"But if he'll need to rest —" 

"He won't," Papa says, and rumbles, *strokes* Aramis — "We've been keeping him *well*-fed and *well*-rested — and I haven't *actually* injured him. The healings have been minor. You know how this works." 

"I... may be feeling a trifle unseemly." 

"A trifle?" 

"Perhaps even a modicum — hm." And Athos looks Aramis *over*. 

*Greedily*. 

Aramis giggles and arches again — 

Wriggles and spreads his legs *wide* over Papa's lap —

Athos flares his nostrils. "I smell you both and I am — when did you say you were healing him again?" 

Papa laughs. "Get those *breeches* off, you arse."

"Yes, please!" 

"I'm frankly terrified of what my cock will do should I allow it freedom, but if you're both *certain*," Athos says, standing and *grinning* — 

"*Arse*." 

Athos *flourishes* — 

"My Athos, I believe your hands belong further *down* —" 

Athos *coughs* — "You're absolutely correct. I haven't the faintest clue what I was —" 

"*Brother*." 

Athos smiles *meanly* — 

*Winks* at Aramis — 

And then opens his breeches with *deft* speed before stepping out of them with no further foolery. 

He is *very* hard. His cock is *dark* with blood, and curves upward slightly. It's slick, and — 

And entirely human — 

*Papa* coughs. "Precious, are you surprised?" 

"I was going to ask if he was *disappointed*." 

Aramis scowls. "I am *neither*. But I have not spent very much *time* this close to hard cocks which were not my *own*. I —" 

"You want to... examine," Athos says, and kneels on the bed. 

"Oh — *yes*! Please let me!" 

Athos *pants* — "I... might not be able to let you do it *much*... this time..." 

"Papa could not *either* —" 

"Your Papa is waiting for the past ten or eleven years of his control to come back, precious," Papa says, laughing hard and moving them back on the bed, closer to the headboard. 

Aramis blinks. "You could have even *more* control?" 

"I —" 

"Terrifying, isn't it?" Athos smiles wryly. "It was wildly intimidating when we were boys." 

"It was bloody *necessary* when we were boys, brother." 

"You'll get no argument from me, brother — *or* my arse," Athos says, and shuffles closer. "But it was still intimidating." 

Papa snorts. "I'll take that. Can *you* take precious examining your pretty cock?" 

"I'd feel better about this if restraints were involved, but yes." 

Aramis *blinks* as he leans over — 

And Papa strokes him. "It's all right, precious. Athos won't hurt you. He's just feeling cautious."

"Mm, yes. Forgive me; I often forget to be reassuring." 

"Yes, Papa, and — do not *be* reassuring, my Athos. Be *yourself*." 

Athos parts his lips again. "Always, my Aramis...?" 

"Yes, *please* —" 

"Study me." 

Aramis *moans* — and does so, tugging Athos's cock down from his belly gently, stroking through the slick — so much thinner than Papa's! But... still more thick than his own. Hm. 

"That... tends to happen as we age," Athos says, and pants. He's sweating — 

*Dripping*. 

Aramis brings his fingertips to his face and sniffs — musky, *unmistakably* male, but...

Different from Papa. 

*Lighter*. 

Less intense, less... 

"Animal, precious...?" 

Aramis frowns and tastes before answering. *This* is intense. *This* is salty-sweet, still musky, and so *flavourful* — 

He hums and *sucks* his fingers — 

Athos shivers — 

Papa laughs hard. "Yeah, you like *that* better..." 

(Yes, Papa! Yes, my Athos!)

"Tell me — tell us — why," Athos says, and stares at Aramis almost *harshly*. 

"Mm!" Aramis tugs his fingers free. "Because the flavours, the sensations — they are more intense than the scents!" 

Athos sighs and *grips* his own long, strong thighs — 

"Did I teach you to like that, precious? *Strong* scents and flavours?" 

"Oh, Papa —" 

"You certainly taught *me* to, brother," Athos says, and grins. 

Aramis grins back — "Yes, *yes* — I may examine more?" 

Athos growls — "Do it." 

Aramis leans in and strokes through the curls at his groin — 

Sniffs him *there* — 

Athos groans and cups the back of his *neck* — 

"Athos. Not yet." 

Athos *yanks* his hand away — 

And that... 

Aramis kisses the base of his cock, where the thin foreskin has bunched. 

"*Hnh* —" 

"Right, precious, Athos needs you now." 

"Oh — oh. Please teach me how to *please*!" 

"We will in *just* a moment," Papa says, lifting Aramis's arse — 

Spreading him — 

And the familiar warm, green *flood* of Papa's healing flows through Aramis, filling him and soothing him and making him feel everything — 

Everything green, everything *living* — 

And then it's over, and Aramis is gasping, *moaning* — 

Papa is slicking his *cock* — 

"I will *never* tire of that sound, brother," Athos says, and pants laughter as he *pets* Aramis — 

His hair — 

His upper back and shoulders — 

"*Good* to know, brother," Papa says, and pushes in — 

In — 

In so *deep* — 

Aramis moans and moans, pushing up on his hands and trying to put the feelings in a context, a — 

It's *different* this way, he feels more full, more — 

It feels as though Papa is *deeper*, somehow, even though his *knot* isn't in!

"Oh, *precious*... that won't last." 

Aramis groans and clenches — "Nuh — *nuh* — I apologize, Papa!" 

"Shh. It's all right, precious. Everything is just fine." And Papa pants out a growl. "Just — just let me get you nice. And. *Full*," Papa says, spreading him wide again — 

Pushing *in* — 

Stretching him and stretching him — 

But Aramis's hole was still wide open from *before*!

"I wish I'd gotten the chance to look at it," Athos says, and pants, as well. 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"I wish..." Athos growls. "I would dip my fingers in. Just my fingers." 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and keeps *pushing*. "Always — rrrn. Always love watching *that*, brother...." 

Aramis *sobs* — 

"Just take it, precious..." 

"Yes. Yes, take it, my Aramis," Athos says, and all but *gleams* at him. "Brother..." 

"Ask." 

"How *many* of my fingers do you think would have fit...?" 

"At least three. *Possibly* four." 

Aramis grunts and clenches *hard* — 

*Screams* — 

Papa growls and stops, *stops* — 

"Papa, *please*!" 

"*Open*!" 

Aramis gasps and feels himself flex *wide* — 

"*Good* boy," Papa says, and *shoves* in — 

Aramis screams again, *again* —

His cock is spasming so *hard* — 

And Athos lifts him, cups Aramis's face and kisses him, kisses him and licks him and *fucks* his mouth with his tongue — 

Papa flexes his *cock* — 

Aramis howls into Athos's *mouth* — 

Athos kisses him *harder* — 

And Aramis goes loose, *loose*, everything in him opening, everything in him *giving* — 

"There's my precious," Papa says, petting him everywhere he can reach — 

(You are perfection,) Athos says. (And so is the taste of myself in your beautiful mouth.) 

Aramis *moans* — 

Athos breaks the kiss and pulls *back* — 

"Oh, no —" 

And then Papa *puts* Aramis's face back in Athos's *lap*. 

Aramis shouts and clenches — 

Shouts *again* and grips at the rumpled sheets — but Athos takes Aramis's hands and places one on his thigh and the other on his heavy *balls*.

"Nnh — oh, *Athos* —" 

"*Squeeze*." 

Aramis obeys with *both* hands — carefully — 

Athos blows out a breath. "*Harder*." 

"Please, my Athos, how *much* harder?" 

"*Hurt* me, Aramis." 

"UNH —" 

And Papa *scratches* down Aramis's spine — "He loves it, precious. He *always* has. Just. Like. You." 

Aramis moans and obeys, *obeys* — 

"*Yes*," Athos says — "Fuck — *yes*." 

"Oh, my Athos, please, please show me, please teach me —" 

"*Slap* my cock with your other hand." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

Blinks — no. He *obeys* — 

"*Good* boy," Papa says, and starts to *rock* inside him, slow and hard and — 

So — 

So — 

Aramis *flushes* — 

Watches Athos *pant* — 

Watches Athos smile *slowly* at him — "Does it feel different that way, my Aramis...?" 

"Yes, my Athos!" 

"How." 

"More — more *deep*. I do not have better *words*, but —" 

"That's good enough, I assure you. I felt the same... when Porthos finally *allowed* me to ride him." 

"*Hey* —" 

Athos laughs *meanly*. "Go on, Aramis. Slap my cock *again*." 

"Do it *hard*, precious." 

Aramis obeys — 

Athos *grunts* —

Grins *wildly* — "Again." 

"Yeah, *again* —" 

Aramis *obeys* — 

Athos *pants*, tongue showing like *Papa's* — "Have I learned my lesson, brother?" 

"Do you bloody *ever*?" 

"Hmm... no. Best to —" 

"Suck him, precious." 

"Oh — fuck, brother," Athos says, and pants *harshly* — 

Stares down at Aramis — 

Aramis tugs Athos's cock into position and takes the head in — 

*Sucks* — 

Slurps *noisily* — and frowns. And considers, while Athos groans and pets his hair. 

He tugs Athos's cock down slightly further — 

Takes more *in* — 

Athos *snarls* — 

Aramis sucks *helplessly* — much less slurping. Better. 

Papa laughs. "Such a neat little precious." 

"Yes — *yes*. It's *wonderful*," Athos says, and *grips* Aramis's hair — 

Aramis hums in pleasure and sucks more — 

More — 

*Takes* more — 

Oh, he can see how this will be *difficult*, but he will not cough, he will *not*. 

He swallows and swallows — 

Breathes through his nose — 

Takes *more* — 

"I need. To fuck," Athos says, and pants like a *bellows*. 

Papa growls low. "Yeah. *Yeah*. Slow, at first." 

"Yes —" 

"Be ready, precious." 

Aramis nods and moves his hand to the base of Athos's cock — 

Holds him *loosely* — 

"*Fuck*," Athos says, and holds Aramis's head *still* — 

And Papa holds Aramis's *hips* — 

And. 

They thrust in. 

*Together*. 

Perfectly *together*, Athos just *bumping* the back of Aramis's throat — 

Aramis groans and groans and leaks and *clenches* — 

Tries to *apologize* — 

"Shh, shh, it's all right, precious —" 

"Yes. *Yes*," Athos says, and they pull *back* together, Papa only going a short distance, but — 

Aramis *shakes* — 

"Oh — you *need* to be fucked," Athos says — 

Yes! 

"Good boy, good little *precious*," Papa says, and they thrust in — 

In — 

In so *slowly* — 

Aramis groans and squeezes his eyes shut — 

Shakes *more* as they pull *out* — 

They are so big, so *thick*!

They are leaving him so *needy* — 

"Just — just a little longer to get you used to it, precious —" 

"*Yes*," Athos says, and they push in, thrust *in*, and this time — 

This time they *stay* in. 

Stay *deep*. 

"Swallow Athos's cock, precious. Swallow him right down..." 

Aramis's eyes fly open *wide* — 

He *lunges* to swallow — 

To swallow and swallow and — 

Athos pushes *in* — 

Aramis coughs — 

Athos pulls back — 

No, no, *no*! 

Athos growls and *thrusts* — fills Aramis. 

*Fills* his *throat*, and it's so different, so — 

He feels so *tight* — *impossibly* tight, as if he wouldn't be *able* to take Papa's cock here — 

"Oh... you will," Papa says, and scratches Aramis's *hips* — 

Aramis's cock jerks and *leaks* more — 

Athos pants and pants and — 

Musses Aramis's *hair* — 

Tugs and *pulls* it — 

Growls and pants *more* — "You feel. *Incredible*." 

Oh, my Athos — 

"I'm going to fuck your throat with every. Every thrust now —" 

Please! 

"You must be *ready*." 

Yes, please!

Athos *growls*, and they pull *back* — 

Slowly, *slowly* — 

And then in a little faster. 

Aramis *gulps* — too soon. Athos bumps the back of his throat before he can get in. 

Aramis apologizes and whimpers and groans once he's in, please stay *in* — 

"You. You have to get *fucked*, Aramis." 

Aramis's belly *drops* — 

They pull back faster — 

In, then, and Aramis is ready, so — 

Out, and Aramis *needs* — 

In, and it's good, so — 

Out, and Aramis can't help trying to move, trying to rock *between* them —

"Oh, precious, you'll get your chance," Papa says, and Aramis clenches — 

Papa *growls* — 

They're moving *faster* — 

*Harder* — 

And now they're alternating, back and forth and back again, so smoothly, so perfectly, and — 

They *ease* their grips on him — 

"*Move*," Athos says — 

Aramis's belly drops *again*, but he's already moving, already *working* himself back and forth between them, swallowing Athos's cock and *taking* Papa's knot, again and again — 

Again and *again* — 

And Papa is *barking* — 

And Athos is panting, growling, clawing at his *scalp* — 

And Aramis is so full, so — 

He's never *empty* — 

He doesn't remember what emptiness *feels* like — 

"*Faster*!" Papa snarls, and Aramis's eyes roll back in his head, but he moves, he *moves* — 

He's so loose — 

He's so *open* for his *men*!

"Perfect, you're —" 

"— bloody *perfect* —" 

"— need you. I *need* you." 

"— never get *away* from us —" 

He doesn't *want* to. He wants to stay right here, on his *knees*, fucked open and held, petted, *gripped* — 

And they're holding him just like that — 

They're *gripping* him and fucking him hard, so *hard* — 

Aramis can't breathe — 

Aramis can't *think* — 

He feels himself falling and *falling*, and nothing has been better, somehow nothing has been *better* — 

Athos shouts and *slams* in, spurting *deep* in Aramis's throat — 

Aramis swallows reflexively and takes it, takes it *all* — 

"Let him. Let him *taste*, brother!" 

"Nngh — *yes*," Athos says, pulling back enough to spurt on Aramis's *tongue*, and the flavours are thick, high, male, sweet — 

Aramis sucks *hard*, forgetting how not to slurp for a moment — 

Athos shudders and pets him, *pets* him — 

"That's so bloody —" Papa snarls and grips Aramis's hips *harder*, making Aramis ride him just the way he'd shown, just the way he'd *promised* — 

It's so *smooth*, so hot, so *sweet* — 

Aramis's mouth falls open in a groan before he can *think* — and spend leaks out of it to the *bed* — 

He — 

Oh, no — 

Athos laughs. "That's quite all right, Aramis. I can understand being... mm. Distracted. Suckle again, though. *Lightly*." 

Aramis obeys, trying to *focus* on suckling, on doing it *well*, but Papa is growling, clawing his *hips* — 

Aramis's *lips* are trembling — 

"Here, let me see if I can make that any more difficult," Athos says, leaning over and *working* Aramis's cock — 

Aramis *whimpers* — 

*Sobs* — 

Clenches over and *over* again — 

He can't — 

Athos is stroking him so *fast*, so *hard* — 

Papa is fucking him so *viciously* — 

Aramis can't *think* — 

He *falls* — and finds himself *kissing* Athos's cock, kissing it again and again — 

"Good. *Boy* —" 

"*Very* good boy," Athos says — 

"— never want to let him up for *air* —" 

"Why *would* you?" 

"Mine, he's mine — and I get to *share* him with you, I get to — oh, fuck — *UNH* —" And Papa *hauls* Aramis back against himself and starts to spend — 

And Athos strokes him *harder* — 

Works — 

Works his thumb-callus against the *head* — 

Papa is *groaning* — 

"Aramis," Athos says, in a low purr. "*Spend*." 

And Aramis wails and spurts, wails and spasms *dry* — 

It's so hot, so intense, so — 

He can't *see* — 

Everything is wild inside him, everything is — 

Is — 

His cock is still *spasming* in Athos's *hand* — 

He's groaning and *aching* so *perfectly* — 

He's *shaking* — oh. He collapses down onto his elbows. 

He pants. 

He nuzzles against Athos's half-hard cock. 

Licks and suckles, as he'd been ordered to do — 

Athos moans and releases Aramis's cock, kneeling up to pet him. 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and pets him, as well.

Aramis hums happily. 

He would like to stay *right* here for a time. 

"Is that so, precious...?" 

(Yes, Papa. If that is well!) 

"It *absolutely* is. Isn't it, brother." 

"I'm sorry, did you expect me to have a mind?" 

Papa snickers — 

Aramis hums a *laugh* — 

Athos gurgles and *thrusts* — 

"MM!" 

"Right, so we're healing precious again." 

"I... can't argue with that. At all." 

Aramis giggles and settles in.


	15. I keep telling you to CALL YOUR MOTHER.

On the fourth day after mating Aramis, Porthos wakes up to an *extremely* insistent tug on his soul that pretty much means exactly one thing. 

Except that Aramis and Athos are awake, too, and looking *confused*. 

That... 

That's new. 

"Brother? What was... that?" 

"Uh. Did you — both of you — feel a little tug? Deep inside?" 

"It was not *little*, my Papa!" 

Right. "Well, uh. The All-Mother wants to speak to — us. All of us, apparently." 

Athos blinks. 

*Aramis* looks thoughtful — for about half a second. "I will wash and dress and then —" 

"Easy, precious, you have to let me prepare you for this," Porthos says, and grips Aramis by the arm before he can get away. 

"Yes, yes, you will do this thing while I —" 

"She's not going to want you all spiffed up, precious." 

Aramis blinks at him. 

Frowns. 

"Is *She* a dog?" 

"She's kind of... all animals. And plants. And... earth." 

Aramis frowns harder. 

"But let me —" 

"Jason said that *Treville* said that when you commune with Her, She *fucks* you, takes your spend, and uses it to fertilize Herself."

Porthos stares. 

Athos is nodding and wagging his head a little. 

Aramis is raising an eyebrow at him.

Which. 

*Right*. "Well, that's true —" 

"I wish to speak to Her about this —" 

"Um." 

"Yes, my Papa?" 

The blithe look is going to kill him. "Did you mean to try to talk Her *out* of doing that?" 

Aramis narrows his eyes. Slightly. "Does my Papa believe I should not." 

Right, well, he'd know that was dangerous ground even *without* his parents laughing their arses off behind a privacy-wall and Athos slowly shaking his head with his eyes wide where Aramis can't bloody see him, but — "Precious. She's the goddess we *live* on. We can *ask* her for *favours* — there's nothing wrong with that — but making demands is a *bad* idea." 

Aramis's soft mouth has flattened to a hard line. "Jason did say you were very dutiful to your goddess. I understand this thing. I will be *perfectly* respectful." 

"Precious —" 

"I am ready, my Papa. Please, let us go." 

Well, there are worse reasons to wind up in the shit with your mate. Porthos takes a breath, nods, and opens himself to the All-Mother — 

Opens himself to the *source* of his power — 

To the source of *nearly* everything that matters to him — it's hard not to grow a fondness for Jason's shadow-being after growing up with the ominous, needle-y, *silent* thing right *there* all your life. 

But that's not where his thoughts belong. 

He *opens* — 

He *reaches* — 

And She reaches back, *taking* him — and Athos and Aramis, too. 

"What —" 

"Oh, I'll never grow accustomed to this," Athos says, laughing softly.

Aramis is next to Porthos in the warm, all-greens-lit hollow the All-Mother had made for them, and Athos is on Aramis's other side. Aramis turns to Athos. "You have done this before, my Athos?" 

*Athos* isn't in the shit — 

"A few times, Aramis. I was *vastly* curious about Porthos's religion when I was a boy." 

"I see! You will teach me more." 

Porthos is *really* in the shit — 

Athos is laughing more. "I believe you'll want — oh." 

"What — what is — oh." 

Porthos watches the All-Mother take Athos and Aramis *gently* — 

More gentle than She ever *usually* is — 

Aramis is flushing — 

Moaning *quietly* — 

Blinking and shaking his head — 

Fuck, She must *really* be being gentle if he's capable of *resisting* — 

**I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE BEST.**

And then Porthos is flat. 

Just — 

Flat. 

Drooling a bit, too. 

From the cock *and* the mouth — 

Normally *he* doesn't rate the flattening treatment — 

**YOU USUALLY COMMUNICATE WITH ME.**

Porthos spends himself *blind* and feels himself sharing *everything* that's happened in the past week and a half — 

*Helplessly* — 

And it isn't like he wasn't *going* to — 

**YOU USUALLY DO NOT MAKE ME WAIT.**

*Fuck* — 

He spends *again*, cock spasming over and over — 

He can't *tell* what's happening with Aramis and Athos — 

He can't *see* — 

He can't — 

She's *reaming* him with power, replacing everything he'd used with Aramis and *then* some — 

This — 

This is feeling like some of the communing *Daddy* and *Mum* have described — 

They *never* talk to the All-Mother enough — 

They *always* make Her wait for important information, and go haring off on missions without telling... Her...

Oh.

Porthos winces. 

While spending. 

The All-Mother *looks* at him. 

It feels like the look comes from every living thing on, near, and under the surface of the earth. 

Porthos has earned it. Sorry, Mother. I *will* do better. 

The All-Mother warms and caresses him, filling him *gently* and rocking him in Her — 

Well, roots. 

Vines. 

Porthos lies back and takes it, and keeps sharing information about Aramis, his *mate* — 

And then She tells him — gently, in his *mind* — that She had considered sending him an Aramis before now, but had not yet surrendered her wishes for Porthos to give Her children with a *female* mate. 

Uh. You mean... those brindle boarhounds... 

The knowledge comes — inexorably — that Porthos would've gotten along *very* well with them. 

Very — 

Very well. 

Porthos swallows. Um. Right. I know you only have my best interests at... at *heart*, Mother, but um. I really prefer Aramis. 

The knowledge comes that She understands, and that witches are always choosy. 

Yeah — yeah, that, Mother. Porthos nods. 

She caresses him more — 

Turns him in the vines so that he can see — 

Athos is sleeping with a smile on his face. 

*Aramis* is dreaming. *Vehemently* by the looks of it. 

The knowledge comes that Aramis has a lot of questions. A *lot* of questions. 

Which, well. That *is* what he does. 

The knowledge comes that, on spheres where Aramis is *only* Jason's student and doesn't meet Porthos, the two of them become lovers — partners and *family*. 

Porthos considers that for a long moment. Just — no. What about when Jason *is* my family?

The knowledge comes that, in situations like that, Jason is somehow usually Aramis's family first, that he *meets* Aramis before he even meets *Daddy* a lot of the time. But that when they *do* all meet... they *all* wind up together. 

Porthos blinks. Because that... 

That 'all' was a bit — 

All-encompassing. 

She strokes him curiously, obviously wanting to know what's wrong. 

Uh. It's just...

She strokes him more. 

Well, it's one thing when it's Jason — even though he *helped* raise me —

More stroking. 

But uh. Mother. That was *Daddy* fucking me. And — Mum was right there? Sucking my *cock*. 

More stroking. More *curiosity*. 

Porthos licks his lips. 

Decides *not* to ask about the rest of the family. 

*Anyone* in the family. 

At *all*. 

Just — if Aramis winds up wanting Jason sometime down the road... well, that's one thing. They can deal with that, especially since the All-Mother says it works out all right. 

The rest...

That is some insanity for another sphere. And that's exactly where it'll *stay*. Porthos gives himself a shake.

The vines hold him tighter, but still gently. 

Porthos settles into being rocked to sleep while Aramis asks his questions.


	16. Oh, Porthos. You already told him you liked hard-working boys.

Aramis wakes up feeling watched — 

And warm —

And comfortable and happy and in desperate need of *parchment* — 

He scrambles up — 

"Hey — what — precious —" 

"I must make many *notes*, Papa!"

"On *what*?" 

"The All-Mother answered *all* of my questions! I understand why you must spend for Her now!" 

"Oh. Well. Good? No, good!" 

"Yes! And She answered many other questions — oh, where are my *clothes* —" 

"They're being *washed*, precious — and repaired, a bit —" 

Aramis growls. "I need to *study*, my Papa!" 

Papa looks stricken. 

Athos looks amused as he kisses Papa's cheek — "Surrender this battle with honour, brother. You have lost." 

Papa groans and lets himself fall back onto their — very fragrant — bed. But — 

"Papa —" 

"Look, you're going to have to wash, precious, so you might as well start there. I'll wash, too, and — get you some clothes." 

Papa makes this sound like Aramis has asked him to stab himself in many sensitive places, but — 

"You will do this now? Now?" 

Papa groans more. 

Athos laughs and *pushes* Papa out of the bed. 

"You're both bloody *awful*," Papa says, and trudges to the basins on the hearth. 

Aramis is already there and washing himself down quickly and efficiently. 

Athos takes the basin on Aramis's left. "You both realize what this means, don't you?"

"*Fuck*." 

"What? What does this mean?" 

Athos smiles evilly. "Our holiday is over. Once you've completed your — preliminary, of course — notes, it will be time for us to return to the garrison." 

"*Oh*!" 

"Are you *eager*?" And Papa looks stricken again.

"Papa! I must *learn*." 

Papa looks down at his half-hard cock. And sighs mournfully. And continues to wash. 

Athos laughs *hard*. "You know, brother, you could always say something positively filthy to him. Get him thinking properly again...?"

Oh. 

"Nah. I'm waiting to do that until he's *shooting*, brother —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

*Papa* smiles evilly. "We have to keep you *challenged*, precious." 

"I..." 

"Oh, yes," Athos says. "We must keep your mind... taut." 

"Open." 

"*Ready*." 

They both show their *teeth* at him — 

And Aramis wonders, for a moment, just what he had gotten himself into. 

He will undoubtedly find out not *very* much later. 

At length. 

He cannot help but look forward to it.

end.


End file.
